


A Matter of Chance

by AsbestosMouth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Jane Austen Fusion, Alternate Universe - Napoleonic Wars, Alternate Universe - Regency, Because if it's Napoleonic Wars we need Captain Eddard Sharpe I mean Stark, Byronic Heroes & Heroines, Devon - Freeform, F/M, Gen, Gender Roles, M/M, Picnics, Ramsay is his own warning, Sharpe - Freeform, Shipwrecks, Smuggling, poldark - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2018-10-10 01:25:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 48,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10426143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsbestosMouth/pseuds/AsbestosMouth
Summary: England. 1812.The Stark family, disinherited by circumstance, come to a quiet village in Devon to grieve the passing of Ned and to rebuild their life upon nothing but two hundred pounds per annum. However. With a young woman whose taste for knights fades when faced with a Byronic anti-hero, a solemn-eyed reverend who may never love anything more than books, a guilt-struck lord who does terrible things for the greatest of causes, and a young and strangely whiskerless lieutenant who, unknown to his dashing major, is not as he seems, how could anyone even consider the village to be boring?A tale of war, pic-nics, barouche-landaus, Spaniards, smuggling, shipwrecks, Byronic poetry, gossip, and, above all, romance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hardlyfatal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyfatal/gifts).



> I said I wasn't going to write more multi chapter for a while, and while I didn't exactly lie, I actually have. This has been percolating for about six months now, and is mostly finished, so I thought I'd start putting it up.
> 
> The village is situated on the Jurassic coast between Sidmouth and Lyme Regis, and is based on the pretty little place called Beer. 
> 
> This was going to be pure Austen, but then bloody plot bunnies requested CaptainSharpe!Ned and then wanted Poldark style Beric, and even more Sharpe style Jaime and Brienne, and yes. So have three different series shoved into one fic.

* * *

 

 

The village teetered precariously upon slumping white-chalk cliffs. Caught between Lyme Regis to the east and Sidmouth the the west, it occupied that stretch of coast long-known for the strange creatures preserved in pale rock, the might of the King’s fine navy, and that strange new concept known as ‘the seaside.’

The King himself travelled to take the air at Lyme, rewarding the town with the ‘Regis’ it so proudly displayed. From Brighton to Plymouth, and far beyond, the rich and fashionable descended upon the south coast to enjoy bracing walks upon hastily created piers and promenades. The ‘season’ changed; to Bath for the waters and the Assembly Rooms, then the social whirl of London, and then to the coast to dip in the bracing waters and breathe in the healthy salt-laden breeze.

Not that anyone of note came to the village. A packet coach travelled through once, perhaps twice weekly, but that provided the most exciting part of many a day. The hours drifted by pleasantly, filled with the idle chatter of the villages. Gossip, after all, dripped lifeblood to an isolated community. The smallfolk and their betters chattered of the once handsome lord who donated so much to the little town, his act promoting industriousness and life. The quiet and solemn-eyed reverend who bore the name of one of the Great Families of England but was clad in naught but mended robes, and worn long boots, and limped so very dreadfully.

“Have you heard,” the barmaid said to the apprentice, “that they’ve let Honeysuckle Cottage? And to a family?”

“Aye.” His voice thrummed with the peculiar western burr of the area. “Aye, I did. A whole family, of a mother and her five children they say. One of the lads is full grown, and a daughter too, but they also say that the husband died,” and here he leaned in, elbow on the bar, aware of the hush as the others craned their necks to listen to a new titbit of news. “They say he was murdered, or at least his passing was most suspicious.”

The barmaid fluttered, her hand finding his arm. They’d been stepping about each other for weeks now, and she refused to lie with him until they made arrangements with the reverend with the solemn eyes. She is no trollop or a hussy. A good job for a good girl, bar maiding - at least in those parts where jobs were scarce unless one braved the roughness of the coastal path to the larger conurbations. No, a barmaid stood a fine chance in a village - good coin, the pick of the young gentlemen; at least those of her station. Ah, if she had the pick, she’d take up with the lord who seemed most honourable and noble despite his poor face. Some said, laughably, he allowed the cellars of the manor to be used by notorious smugglers, and trod upon the wrong side of the King’s laws, but that seemed sheer foolishness! Other masters cheated, or scrimped, or abused those beneath them. Lord Dondarrion never committed such treacherous, heinous acts. He gave his own money to heal the sick, clothe the naked, feed the poor. Before them all, in the front most pew of the gently crumbling ancient chapel where the solemn-eyed reverend spoke his eloquent and thoughtful sermons, their lord pressed golden sovereigns into the collection plate.

“How was he murdered?” Her eyes, round as saucers, shone with fascinated horror.

“They say,” and he nestled close to her perfumed ear, near enough to kiss her on her pertly maddening mouth, “that he was beheaded.”

“Aye, and it’s no place for idle gossip.” The publican, silver-whiskered and sea-salt stained from years aboard smuggling ships, cuffed the lad around the head; his curiously short fingers lacked the tip beyond the first knuckle. “Them’s people, and you treat them like people. Imagine if it was your Da’ that was killed, and someone was here spreading all over the town about how he suffered. Anyhow. You should be back at work, should you not?”

“Gendry’s covering-”

“And Gendry’s too bloody good for you all. Get your arse back to that smithy, Matty.”

“But Da’!”

“Don’t you ‘Da’ me, young Matthos.” The publican swiped again, but the young man dodged with a cry of triumph. “Arse to work, sharpish. You forget that I can still give you a spanking, despite you being old enough and ugly enough, eh?”

With a grumble, a roll of his eyes, a thrilling kiss from his barmaid, young Seaworth scampered from the dark warmth of the pub and into the glimmering sea-sparkling afternoon.

 

* * *

 

“It is so cold.” Sansa wound a blanket about herself, shivering; even the bed, faded counterpane over blankets, lowered musty and unwelcoming.

“Do you think it will warm?” The damp little room that she and Arya occupied was far too chill for a supposedly unseasonably warm May. Before they all came to Devon, leaving the north and Winterfell as a sweet and ebbing dream of winter, this cottage had not been occupied for some time. According to the landlord’s agent, a rather dapper yet small-statured gentleman called Mr. Baelish - who knew Mother from many years previously and tended towards the over-familiar - Honeysuckle Cottage sat empty and forlorn for several seasons. No wonder the walls and floors refused to warm, even with humanity once more living under the pitched slated roof.

“Stop putting your frozen feet on me!” Arya bared her teeth, snatching her legs away.

“Sorry.”

All they could afford; a too small cottage for the six of them. Bran required his own apartment upon the ground floor, and Mother, of course, must have her own room, so she and Arya crammed into this peeling-papered pokey closet-like chamber overlooking the rather rickety old stable building. Decay sat lightly upon all things, even with sweeping, and mopping, and scrubbing.

Sansa’s hands, so pale and soft-cream, ached from gripping brushes, and tepid water chilling rapidly to ice, and sheer hard work.

“I hate this.” Arya, teeth chattering, glowered into the darkness. All that could be afforded as light, a sputtering fat-stinking candle made of tallow - not even beeswax - lit a small and dreary corner by the bed. “Why couldn’t we stay at Winterfell?”

“The will, dearest.”

Father’s will had not been rewritten from before he wed Mother, leaving the entirety of the estate to Uncle Benjen and Aunt Meera. Uncle protested hugely, for he never wished to become the owner of the towering, gloomy Yorkshire castle and the vast surrounding lands, but legally nothing could be done. He wrote his own will that even if he and Aunt had children, the title and lands would fall back to Robb, but until such a time, nothing remained for them in the North.

Uncle, as a sergeant with the Blackwatch, spent most of his time in India, or fighting the Spanish, or battling the French. Aunt, a kindly soul whose brother was Bran’s particular good friend, begged for the Starks to remain but Mother, stubborn and proud, removed her children and brought them south, on a widow’s mite, to Devon. An offer of a cottage by Lord Dondarrion, moved by the plight of a woman losing her husband and her home, seemed far more tempting than taking to the Midlands once more to where the Tullys owned half of Derbyshire.

Warmth could help Bran, after all. Heal his legs.

Sansa, quietly, knew that Mother wished to be away from anything that could remind her of Father; this included Riverrun Park, the handsome Tully-owned stately home where he proposed and asked for her hand. Fleeing south in ignominy and poverty, away away from memory, was rather more palatable than being haunted by a kind-eyed and honourable ghost called Ned, or Father, or the Master of Winterfell, or a hundred other epithets that Mr. Stark earned in his lifetime.

“I even wish Theon were here. He’d make us laugh. Or Jon.”

Arya missed their cousin so greatly.

“He has promised to visit when he is given leave. He promised to bring you a Spaniard to help you with your sword skills - perhaps he shall take one prisoner and bring him to us?”

Her sister’s face tightened, those fierce eyes glowing grey and cold. Father’s eyes, but in Arya so wild, and untamed, and spite-riddled. “You treat me as a child, Sansa. I’m fifteen, I’m almost full grown, and yet you try and bribe me into being good with all your entreaties and hollow promises!”

“Then you should act like a young lady, rather than a petulant little girl.” Sansa regretted the words the moment they slipped from her lips. They all suffered, and it would not do to argue. Father’s death wounded so very deeply, and Arya, who adored her father so very greatly, grieved by lashing out, acting up. She hurt, and snipped, and grew even more stubborn and mulish. She swore, oddly heated, that she’d run off to the Indies and make their fortunes in sugar and rum. She’d go to the Blackwatch with Jon, pretending to be a boy, bring great honour upon their house. She’d flee to France, learn from the greatest of swordsmen. Become a highwayman.

Sansa’s own choice flickered like candle flame; uncertain. As a young woman of beauty and grace, of excellent breeding, it was always expected she marry, and marry well. The Starks, one of the ancient houses of the North, once provided brides for royalty. Had not her great grandmother wed the second son of a King? Had not, even further back, they been half-kings themselves, their bloodlines tracing back to the noble Kingdom of Northumbria, the Scots.

But as an undeniably lovely girl, ripe to be married to some high-bred and wealthy man, her future lay in smoldering ruin afore her. Beautiful she may have been, and well-born, and educated in the manner of the noble lady, but without a dowry? How could she even hope to bring succour to her Mother, her brothers and sister, when they existed on a mere two hundred pounds per annum?

Arya dreamed of greater office; soldiering, or fighting, or at least rising above her sex and becoming someone greater than her femininity suggested. At least Robb would one day become the owner of Winterfell and the titles as he deserved. What of Bran, invalided in a bath chair? Prodigious of mind, yes, but frail of body; greater than the rest of them in intellect, and so fascinated with the ancient myths of Britain. He promised, in his serious academic way, to write a book so wondrous that all would buy his tales of Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. What of Rickon, lost and displaced from all he knew? A wild child - so used to dales and moorlands, removed and placed in an alien setting of sea and cliff and sensibility - he spoke little, and spent most of his days avoiding Mother’s attempts to educate him, racing upon the thin crescent of beach with his shaggy grey wolfhound and pretending everything was perfectly fine.

“I hate being here, Sansa. I want to go home.”

“We will, one day Arya. I know we will. Our fortunes must change, I am sure, even though we feel as if the world has ended.”

“I want to see Father once more.” Her sister bit back her tears, voice rough and hoarse. Arya said, too recently, that feelings made her weak and she needed to be strong for the family. Rise above it all. Seize opportunities, bitter and cold like vinegar and ash. Someone had to cut through the shit and take revenge upon those who killed Father.

It broke Sansa’s tender heart to hear one so young grow so cynical.

 

* * *

 

The man with the solemn eyes and the slightly shabby robes of a poor parish priest lit the lamp and settled into the creaking but softly-padded armchair. A breeze creeping under an ill-fitting window sash guttered the pool of light; it set his knee aching, but nothing contained the random chills that the manse allowed. No wool-stuffed extruders, or planing the damp-warped window sashes, or banking the wood a little higher in the grate. The vicarage, naturally cold and ascetic; very much unlike its occupier.

Books lined the walls of the study. Books lined the walls of the entire house. Curiously, given the meagre nature of the building, the furniture tended towards the handsome and well-made if of a style fifty years out of date, and the vast quantity of reading materials hinted at a life, previously, filled with intellectual pursuit and academia. Few afforded a library of such depth, especially a reverend of a small backwater village situated upon a quiet point of the Devon coast.

But then Reverend Tyrell was not the usual preacher.

His family owned vast tracts of Wales, and that reflected in the warm rich softness of his voice. He spoke English with an inflection that belied his Celtic roots, and, when flustered, sometimes fell back to his native tongue.

Local gossips postulated that he once was the heir of Gardd Uchel, the seat of the Tyrells; disowned, they said, for his Godly ways, his crippled leg, his love for Christ that drove him to eschew his high status and become a lowly parish priest. They wove tales of romantic fervour where he stood before his father and told him that he would no longer one day become Lord Tyrell, but had taken a position at a village in Devon, and his brother would replace him in the inheritance.

The local gossips, for once, were almost correct

It was not his father that Willas Tyrell stood before, but his grandmother. It was she who cut him off without a penny and, with ringing disappointment in her voice that still echoed in the young reverend’s fevered dreams, told him that family was more than Godliness in this modern day and age. He should, she explained, marry some poor aristocratic broodmare and provide children, as his brother Garlan deigned to do.

Of course, Garlan married for love, being the second son, but luckily his bride came from one of the oldest and most powerful Welsh families - one of the most fecund, fertile. She bore three little Tyrell heirs, with another on the way according to Garlan’s latest, loving letter. Despite the difficulties he suffered with the older generations of the family, Willas and his siblings remained close. Of course, they all remained entrenched in Olenna’s machinations to have her grandchildren at the highest echelons of society, replete with power and prestige, and none seemed quite brave enough, apart from Willas, to throw off her reins, buck the trappings. However, given their varied situations, they supported each other the best they could.

And yet, none knew what Willas understood. None discovered his greatest, and most tragic, secret.

Willas, highly educated, who studied Theology at Cambridge and mixed, headily, with poets and preachers and those of similar intellectual levels as he, and fascinated in the sciences, realised that the extent of his childhood injuries impacted his ability to father children.

Why take the lordship, and the estates, and the money, and marry some poor girl who wanted a whole passel of children, and yet be unable to keep any of it within his grasp? Willas knew that by grace of his education, his natural affinity with diplomacy and understanding of how to run business, his general good-natured demeanour; all promised greatness. Yet, what could greatness achieve without an heir? No, best that Garlan took Gardd Uchel, for his children, and their children, rather than his nephew have everything thrust upon him without learning how to care for such a treasure. Best that the poor wife he should have wed marry a man who could give her babies. Best that Willas, for all his sense, education, and goodness, retired from the best of society and embrace that which became his passion at Cambridge.

It was lonely living in the village. He had his letters from Garlan, and Margaery, and sometimes from Loras. His youngest brother found academic Cambridge boring, speaking of revelries and parties more than hard work and intellect; Loras took up with a young law student named Baratheon, made noise about entering the military. Such close friends were Renly and Loras; inseparable. Willas found young Baratheon a charming and slightly sly person, possessing great charisma and charm that sometimes gives way to mocking and japery.

Margaery scribbled, in her very ill hand, of the whirl of London, or Bath, promising endlessly to summer at Lyme and therefore see Willas at his own home, but it never quite came to pass.

No, apart from his letters, and he still wrote a little to his Cambridge companions - especially Byron, who set afire Willas’ love of romantic, wonderful poetry - there are few he associated with.

Lord Dondarrion, who Willas considered a kind and godly employer, invited him to dine twice monthly. They discussed the village, the people. Politics, perhaps a little philosophy. Dondarrion, despite his position, was rather more at home speaking of the French and Spanish wars than poetry, or literature, or history. A fine gentleman, with a warm and generous heart, who insisted that the poor and defenceless living within his demesne be given the charity they deserved; a man of action rather than theory. Perhaps the village needed such a person overseeing her?

Another creak; overhead, the wind wailed at the flaking eaves of the manse.

Reverend Tyrell pushed his curling hair from his forehead, stretching a little pained for an improving book. He should be writing a sermon, yet the words, which usually came so easily to him, cowered from his pencil.

 

* * *

 

A starlit night; the moon a mere sliver of paleness hidden behind cloud and swimming in the endless ocean of velvet black. Atop the chalk cliff, perhaps a mile from the village, a tall man with his face wrapped about in a dark woollen scarf and a tricorn hat perched upon his bright hair stared wordlessly over the water.

“Tomorrow,” the man with him promised. He stood square and immovable, as if he owned the dark grassland and gently crumbling soil, short and well-built and entirely ungentlemanly in a black leather long coat.

“Don’t kill them if they’ll live."

White teeth gleamed like polished bone. “You’re too fucking nice.”

“At least not the crew. They do nothing but sail for coin. The officers-”

“Know what they are doing,” the other finished. His voice, and it reflected the north in every syllable, drawled and prickled with amusement. “For a smuggler, ser,” so very mocking, “you’re soft.”

“They don’t need to die, Ramsay.” As sneering as the shorter man was, his companion, visage hidden in cloth, leaned towards a certain measured control that at seemed at odds with the figure at his side. “Not the crews. The officers, if they would recognise you, then that is a given, but-”

“Too fucking nice.”

A sigh, regret filled. The man in black leather laid a hand upon the other’s shoulder, fingers tight upon cloth.

“Best pay the pretty reverend more gold for your guilt, my lord, before you drown in your own sorrows.” Bolton inclined his dark head, skin pale and glowing. In the bleakness of a Devon midnight, he was nothing but shadow and starlight, black and white in turn. The vicious cant of his body and the certain wrongness lurking within his smirk changed him from an interesting and almost attractive young man into some sort of hell-bound demon that Dondarrion found, much to his dismay, thoroughly addictive.

“I do not like this, but needs must-”

His men and women hungered, and the ship owners grew fat and indolent upon the profits of human misery, slavery, exploitation. Once, when the wreckers struck, they dragged dying dark-skinned human cargo from the splintered wreckage and not the rum, or spice, or sugar expected. Dondarrion, horrified, provided enough coin for them to be clothed, a little for future lodgings wherever they wished, and gave them safe passage to London. He brooded for days; not even Bolton’s snarling antagonism dragged him from his thoughts, before declaring that perhaps they were meant to rescue those poor souls, and that the wrecking and smuggling must continue.

Dondarrion existed; a man caught in the eternal struggle between goodness and decency, and the  necessity of providing by any means for his people.

Ill-gotten gains funded Blackhaven and the village. Mostly smuggling; avoiding the taxes of the Exchequer, the ever-vigilant excise men. He had not thought upon wrecking - the luring of ships onto the rocks to the west of his lands - until Ramsay appeared, as if from nowhere.

Now, damnation, their very existences intertwined.

He’d arrived, black-clad in leathers and wearing knives at his belt, perhaps ten, twelve months previous. No warning of visiting, but then Ramsay had never been a gentleman despite his august lineage. A nervy-eyed maid ushered in a perfect stranger, albeit one with a most singular gaze that identified him immediately as the blood of Roose Bolton himself.

“My lord,” and he bowed with a faint obsequiousness that Lord Dondarrion grew to understand as sneering. “An honour.”

“I am sorry, I was not expecting a guest.”

“Mr. Bolton, my lord. Ramsay Bolton, lately of the Dreadfort though I find myself charmed by your manor and the surrounding lands. Very handsome.” Disquietingly, given the heated expression from the man and the minute examination from those pale orbs set in that paler face, Beric found himself idly wondering if the lad meant the estate or Beric himself.

Beric sent the maid to bring tea, and some cake, and the moment they were alone the young man’s countenance changed as if something struck in his head. Immediately he straightened, padded forward. He stood perhaps six inches shorter than Dondarrion, but, unlike most men of his stature, seemed to dominate the surroundings. He wore long leather boots, and breeches made of calfskin, and a long hide coat fitted at the waist but hanging to his heels.

“I also know that good lords should not smuggle,” he murmured, a nasty smile upon his lips. “Or murder those who discover that they are, indeed, very bad men.”

“Who are you?” It was easy enough to calm himself, remain sensible. No proof was laid before him. This Bolton could be spouting falsehoods, lies, for all the knowledge of his staff, his village, his associates. “Why do you think coming into my home and accusing me of such is something you should do?”

Lord Dondarrion had killed men for less, with his own hands. The needs of the people demanded such.

“Because I want in.” Those icy eyes glittered, as opaline as gemstone. “I have connexions, as do you, and it is through them I heard of your efforts. The brotherhood of our kind extends beyond the Devon coast, my lord. It reaches to the North Sea. Especially around the area of Whitby, and Robin Hood’s Bay - so treacherous the waters that many ships simply dash themselves upon the rocks where the more,” and he paused, considering his words, “fortunate of souls may divest the dead and the boat of the finer items. However, my father wished me to disappear from Yorkshire since my proclivities have been discovered, I find myself here.”

“Proclivities?” He shuddered to think.

“Perhaps my enjoyment of the situation is less in the gold and silks, and more in the flesh.” The smile widened, became toothy and worrisome. “However, as well you know my lord, the dead can tell no tales, can give no evidence. We do, after all, know that the end justifies the means."

“I will do no business with a wrecker.” Appalling. Luring ships onto the ragged coastline with lamps, aping the comforting warmth of a lighthouse, or a harbour master’s lantern? Smuggling had little human impact; it fought the rich - the government - and allowed the poor a little comfort. The publican, who once trod the same soil as Dondarrion and suffered Judge Baratheon’s ire for his trouble, explained once that no one hurt. The Exchequer did not receive the gold; therefore the wealth flowed not to those in power but to communities forgotten by those outside the metropolis. A victimless crime, apart from those who would arrest a lord and his followers, but they understood the danger when they took their roles.

“A hundred guineas cleared in one night, my lord, and you say you will do no business with me? How many of your villagers would sleep well with full bellies?” Bolton stepped forward, until they almost touched. “How many could educate their brats so that they could better themselves? How many could afford medicine? You do not think large enough, my lord. So small you remain, when with your influence not just one village could thrive, but ten. Fifty like settlements.”

“What is in it for you?”

Ramsay grinned then, and the effect was as if a crocodile bared its strong white teeth.

“I’m a bastard, my lord, and my father has bred his fat young wife. My new brother lies within a cradle, the heir to what was once mine. Yes, Lord Dondarrion. I was to be a great lord as you are, and yet it has been snatched from my grip. Security is what I crave. Cash, and a handsome home. Power. Privilege. Everything that I should have been afforded if my mother wed my father, rather than being the whorish widow of a man he had hanged for denying his lord’s wishes. I was dragged up until I was twelve, and my father had me removed to his home. He never allowed me to forget what I was, and how he tormented me with my station in life. All I want, my lord, is to rise above my father and laugh in his face as he begs for my forgiveness that I will never, ever, give to him.”

“Revenge,” Beric began, “is a powerful creature, that can devour and twist-”

“Aye, it can. It has. It always will. And yet,” so that Dondarrion felt the mint-tinted breath upon his neck, the promise of teeth and lips against his throat, “it tastes almost as sweet as death, and fucking, and power. I find I enjoy all three equally.”

Beric only discovered later that Lord Bolton’s understanding of his son’s murderous ways led to Ramsay being exiled before he slaughtered the new babe, or the fat young wife, or Roose himself. He did not deny his murderous nature; indeed, Bolton revelled in the lust of blood and death, just as he drowned in hedonism and sensuality, violence and strength.

Gritting his jaw, for the end always justified the means, and Ramsay, fond sometimes, called him the Robin Hood of Devon, Lord Dondarrion nodded. 

“Do it, Bolton.”

“I’d do it anyway, without your permission. You know this.”

“I know, Ramsay. I, of all men, do not hold your leash.”

“No man holds my leash. Least of all you. My Lord.”  

 

* * *

 

The lieutenant raked a hand through his short blond hair, adjusted his red and gold brocaded jacket, and fought to remain mostly upon his feet.

Tarth disliked sea journeys despite being brought up upon the island which bore his name. He especially loathed those that picked across the Bay of Biscay, rounded Brittainy, and then ran for England and home. The roughness of the spring weather threatened shipwreck; along the Cornish and Devonian coastlines, the hulks of rotting timber whispered mournfully of the dead, the drowned, the lost.

His brother, Galladon, merely twelve when lost to the waves, was a bright-minded boy who wished to become a Captain in the Navy. The Isle of Tarth gave many a taste for sailing; the young midshipman perished upon the vicious Scilly rocks during a particularly vicious storm some fourteen years previously.

They skirted the jaggedness of the very south west, about the Lizard, proceeding along the cliff faces and beachy hollows towards Lyme. There they would disembark and take to the town for the summer; finally, some time away from soldiering and the Spanish.

“Ah, you are still incapable of remaining upright,” commented the dark-eyed prisoner, who grinned teeth very white. He did not seem overly-upset that he bunked with the young blond lieutenant.

They took the prince - the younger Sr. Martell - at one of the many skirmishes between the Bonaparte forces and the allied English, Portuguese, and independant Spanish. Though the eldest Martell remained neutral, this Oberyn, a career soldier of some skill, ended up leading French-employed Swiss mercenaries against his countrymen. Martell proved a cunning, ruthless leader of men, not shy of using less sporting methods against those he battled; his ability with poisons became legendary amongst those who witnessed the destruction that the liquids wrought.

He was also charming, handsome, and a little too perceptive.

“Do they know?” he asked idly, as the storms of the Bay of Biscay rocked the frigate.

“Do they know what?” Tarth queasily peered over the top edge of his novel. He despised sea journeys, and the major always mocked his weak stomach. At least they headed for home, and not toward yet another battle; the French proved annoying adept, and even with the Emperor’s foolish brother as the Spanish king, this promised to be a far lengthier war than promised.

“I have daughters, my dear lieutenant. You remind me, most fascinatingly, of my eldest.”

Knowing brown eyes bore into Tarth’s bright blue ones. The major once told him that if those eyes belonged to a woman, he’d marry the wench and have done with it.

“Ser, I am-”

“Safe.” An olive-fleshed hand found the lieutenant’s muscled thigh, lingering for a moment too long than proper. “I am most amused that such a brave Englishman is not quite as he seems. My daughter, named Obara, fights with a pike. So devoted to her martial studies. She is not clever for tactics, unlike yourself, but most elegant and deadly in a melee.”

The palpitating terror still remained, especially when the major, arm still tightly bound from where a Swiss sword cleaved hand from wrist, came to pass a little time. He’d bidden Tarth guard Martell not just, as Lannister said, ‘no scrawny Spaniard could best you, could they? You’re far too enormous for a mere continental to get by.’ The lieutenant had proved, time and time again, his valour in battle, his head for warfare, his decency and dependability. From a mere callow youth, he became a bloody good soldier, despite the flaws that Martell so easily understood.

“We are nearly at Lyme, ser. There we billet for our men to rest, and you will be transferred to a place befitting your station.”

“I do hope the company is as charming as yourself, lieutenant.” The roving gaze turned Tarth blushing, his large calloused hands twisting at his tunic cuffs.

“The local lord will be your host, I am told.”

“Ah, if he is as handsome as you-” Since they left Lisbon Martell flirted constantly. Tarth realised, perhaps five days after the prince discovered his secret, that the level of courtesy had not increased but remained a constant. Whatever his sex, and Tarth needed to be called ‘him’ at all cost for if the Army discovered what truly lay between his thighs all would be for naught, Oberyn flattered. He also turned his considerable attentions to the major, who laughed it away with amused ease.

It was perfectly understandable as to why Oberyn teased Lannister, made eyes, purred his sweet nothings.

Lannister outclassed Tarth in every way apart from height and fighting aptitude; the latter only because he’d lost his sword hand. The major stood tall, and blond, and arrogantly handsome, eyes shining the same greenishness as the seaglass found upon the shores of Tarth Isle - that sweet and sheltered paradise - and his smile. Oh his smile. It warmed his face, dazzling any who looked upon him.

Tarth, who favoured romantic tomes written by young women, much to the amusement of his fellow men - and he pointed out, cunning and careful even if he hated lying, that if that was what ladies wrote, then perhaps he himself read them to improve his chances at love - knew the major could be the hero in anything written by a novelist. Not that he loved Lannister, he told himself between gritted teeth. Too disparate were their worlds, and, given the lieutenant’s peculiar circumstance, he could never admit his admiration. From behind, it was often noted, they appeared almost as twins. Tall, and well-formed, and lean-hipped. Strong. Masculine.

Ironic, of course.

They always teased Tarth for his vocal pitch, his youthful inability to grow whiskers, his disinterest in the local women of the countries in which they fought and died. His fellow men took him to a London brothel once, to finally lose the good lieutenant his virginity, and Tarth found himself talking with and not bedding the buxom red-haired whore with the pretty face. Good silver paid for a decent conversation, and Ros, winking, mocked the other troopers; no one had ever made her feel as well loved as Lieutenant Tarth, she jeered. Indeed, she continued, the young man quite ruined her for the touch of any other gentleman given the size, the talent, the application.

None of the lads ever asked Tarth to accompany them again, afraid they would be severely outclassed by someone obviously gifted with women.

Tarth sent Ros a box containing a little gold, some good silks, a set of stays. No frippery, or fancy; good honest items that could be used or sold, as was seen fit, by a woman in a certain circumstance that saved the lieutenant more than embarrassment.

Boot steps and the clinking of a sword belt echoed within the dimness of the hold, and then Major Jaime Lannister’s blond hair gleamed in the lamplight as he settled next to his lieutenant.

“Land ho, as they say aboard ships, Tarth.” The major smiled easily, though tiredness marred the skin beneath his eyes, at his brow. His maiming took much from him, though Lannister refused to allow his subordinates to see the strain. Only Tarth, his second in command, assisted with dressing the stump, washing his body, shaving his face. It caused the tall lieutenant difficulties, for he possessed a natural shyness that was to be expected given his admiration and his own peculiar circumstance. “We shall be passing the Sapphire Isle before we land, and I rather thought you’d want to see your home. You bang on about it enough.”

“Thank you, ser. Can the prisoner come upon the deck?”

“I promise not to escape, Jaime.” Oberyn’s impish use of the major’s given name hinted at their mutual aristocracy. Tarth, well-born but still mere gentry, could never claim familiarity of his superior in both rank and position. “My fondness for you and Tarth is such that I could never disappoint such handsome officers. Unless you wished,” and he tilted his head like a courtesan, a coquette, “to punish me for my naughtiness?”

“Spaniards.” The major rolled his eyes, though amusedly. “You must meet my brother. Tyrion adores others who take pleasure in the flesh as he does. He’s an absolute whore, like yourself. Not quite as tall, however.”

Above now; wood slick beneath booted heels, the milk paleness of dawn bled into the sky. The Isle of Tarth lay sleeping, and lovely, and the lieutenant found himself raising his hand in greeting as the long Portland stone house that was once his home formed an inky silhouette in the distance. The second time back to England, and he knew that in some respects luck blessed him. Others, like the Blackwatch, took the perilous journey to India. Tarth saw them as they resupplied in Portugal; the new recruits - one, with a pale pretty face and a cloud of dark curls had made officer before they even left Europe for Africa and the Cape - nervous and clustered. At least fighting the French allowed a sweeter knowledge that even if he died in service his bones could return to the Isle. No sticky and humid grave in the East for Tarth.

“It is perhaps an hour, or two, before we see Lyme.” He knew this stretch of water. He grew upon upon the sands, and cliffs, and the wheeling sea birds, and the romance of piracy and Spanish treasure ships harried by the Good Queen’s Armada. It was here that Brienne became the boy she so needed to be after Galladon’s death. It was here that the ungainly and ugly girl finally settled into a skin that was his own.

Silent, apart from creaking sheets and snapping sails, they sailed onward; past cliffs, and Dawlish, past a wrecked merchantman aground upon spiked rocks. Rescuers scrabbled at planking, and a knot of survivors shivered in the cold of an early morning.

“Poor bastards.” Major Lannister arched his brows. “Shocking bad place to wreck. Nothing here for miles.”

Tarth, knowing the whims of the locals more than others, hoped that only bad luck caused the tragedy. The wreckers usually worked further south, but the price of bread drove even good people to acts of villainy.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

 

Sunday.

Sansa fastened her bonnet under her chin and prayed that it would not rain. Her hat could not deal with wetness; silk stuff in a pretty silver grey, and delicate lace, and ribbon. They may have been reduced to penury, but Sansa needed to feel elegant. Pretty. Father brought the fabric for her gown back from London. Her gloves, of soft kid, were a gift from her mother’s brother for her sixteenth nameday. They took titles, and lands, and dignity, but Sansa could never allow them to take her smartness.

“Do we have to go to church? Bran’s not going. Why can’t I stay with Bran?” Arya, sulking, refused to don her jacket or her own rather less fine headwear.

“It is expected of us, dear. Mother would prefer it if we could make some acquaintance with the other gentry. Perhaps we shall make some fast friends?”

Life crunched, eggshells beneath her slippers. Arya bucked like an unbroken filly against the reins of social normality. Mother, red-eyed, refused to leave bed. Bran, who wished he could go with Sansa as he grew more fascinated with the glimpses of the sea from his chamber window, could not leave the house without the assistance of a strong man, and one had not yet been found. Winterfell bustled with servants, but dear Hodor could not be taken from the only home he had ever known. They came south with a housekeeper and companion, and nothing more.

Rickon? Wild, and talked only with his dog.

“Mother should have never let us leave Winterfell. Uncle wanted us to stay. We could all have lived there.”

“Mother is too proud to accept charity, Arya.”

“Pride gets people killed.” The girl thrust her bonnet upon her short cropped hair - in London, apparently, boyish hair was the ‘in thing’ that season, which annoyed Arya who hated being thought mod-ish, but loathed long curls even more - and seized a sturdy cane. It had been father’s, and within the shaft nestled a very slender sword.

Father left the weapon to Arya; a Needle she used, rather than the one stuck forlornly into the linen of her neglected embroidery.

“I am sure we shall meet some splendid new friends.”

“Stop pretending that everything is fine, Sansa. Father is dead, Mother is going slowly mad. We’re penniless, hundreds of miles from home-”

“I can hear you all the way from Mother’s room.”

Guiltily, both girls ceased their bickering. Robb looked tired but determined, as always. He bore their suffering with a straight-forward good natured honesty that reminded them all, awfully, of Father. The same decency, and sense, even if his auburn hair and blue eyes meandered towards Mother’s Tully side.

“Sorry Robb. How is Mother?”

“Sleeping. The laudanum helps a little. Before she slept, she asked me give her regards to Mr. Baelish if we see him, and a Lord Dondarrion. Apparently she knew them when she was a young woman and visiting Devonshire.”

“We will behave accordingly.” She glanced censurously at Arya, who pulled a face. “We will make Father and Mother proud.”

“Yes, yes.”

They could not afford a black dress for Sansa; being taller than Mother and Arya, she was therefore unable to dress appropriately for mourning.

Father understood; Sansa knew that.

 

* * *

 

It did not rain.

As Sansa and Robb, arms linked, picked their way across the slippery cobbles toward the chapel - Arya skipping ahead, skirts flying, examining lichen and moss-smothered gravestones and proclaiming that she had no idea how such a small village could contain so much death - they were hailed by a tall and well-built man of perhaps five-and-thirty wearing a smart dark green coat, long boots, and an eyepatch. His dress demonstrated a wealth that they had not yet witnessed within the village; fabric glowed rich but understated, the knob of his ebony wood cane glimmering silver and inset with amethyst.

“Good morning to you both, and welcome. Would it be wrong to presume you must be Mr. Stark, and Miss Stark, who have taken possession of Honeysuckle Cottage?” The corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile.

“That is indeed correct, ser.” Robb bowed politely, as did the tall man. His hair, bright even in the greyness of a sad May day, tended toward an unusual sandy red. “To whom do we owe the pleasure of meeting?”

“Lord Beric Dondarrion. I believe I am your landlord? A pleasure to finally meet you - I knew your mother, a little, when she was young, and when I heard of your misfortune I wanted to give any assistance that I could.” The warmth of his expression turned his eyes golden: Sansa realised with a start that before his injuries that scarred his face and necessitated the eye patch, the good lord had been a very handsome gentleman.

“She asked if I would speak with you and offer our thanks for your great kindness-”

“It is nothing. I am only sorry that I could not do more. Do you need any assistance? I asked Baelish to ensure the weatherproofing of the cottage, but if there is anything at all that is required, I beg you only to ask.”

Sansa attempted not to stare. She grew to adulthood quite in love with the tales of medieval knights, and chivalry, and romance. Living isolated at Winterfell - London, accordingly, gossipped wildly of the beautiful northern girl kept alone in chilly quietude, and the thought of being rescued and taken south by a handsome noble lord appealed hugely - meant that the only gentlemen she met were her brothers and their friends, or her father’s employees. Theon made her laugh, though his behaviour appalled everyone given the familiarity with vice he enjoyed. Jon, sweet Jon, so sullen that many thought him rude but the family understood he tended toward the shy, and perhaps she had been a little cruel to him at times given his bastardy and Mother’s animosity, always could be relied on.

Sansa had never met a man quite like Lord Dondarrion. Knightly. Courteous. She could see him upon a great chestnut destrier, about to plunge into battle for King and Country.

“There is a grave dating from before the Civil War, Robb!” Arya, spattered in mud, raced over, her bonnet dangling from the ribbons, her hair untidy. “You must come and see!”

“Arya, manners!”

“You’d not understand. You care little of history. Come on, Robb!” Arya scrabbled at Robb’s arm, tugging insistently.

“I shall accompany Miss Stark if you wish to explore, Mr. Stark. It would be an honour to have such a handsome young lady upon the arm of a battered old soldier.”

Polite and gentlemanly, also. If he were younger, perhaps Sansa would be a little in love with him.

“I apologise for Arya, ser, she is-”

“Nice meeting you,” the girl called as she dragged Robb away, towards the rear of the churchyard where the grass stood tall and the graves seemed rather saddened. Lord Dondarrion shook his head, his expression amused.

“She seems quite the force of nature, Miss Stark?”

“My sister is quite bold, ser. She prefers to think herself a boy rather than her own sex.”

“Individuality is an excellent trait for any to have. She seems bright, and enthusiastic, and that is rare indeed.” He offered his arm, and Sansa, a little chagrined at being gently chided, took it politely. Underneath the fabric, Lord Dondarrion proved rather muscular. A tall gentleman, and very well built, but so charming and caring. Indeed, if he were five-and-twenty, she’d find herself rather enamoured of this brave person. In her mind, Sansa imagined the courage of the man given his scars; of course she told herself of their romantic origin. Perhaps he rescued the beautiful daughter of a maharajah, who he wished to wed, but she already had a husband?

Sansa always possessed an enviable talent for writing pretty tales with her mind - even if they often turned out to be nothing but fancy and flimmery.

“If I had a daughter, I would be proud for them to be like you or Miss Arya; I have been told of your talent for singing and playing, your excellent nature and manners.”

“Are you married, Lord Dondarrion?” Such a fine gentleman must be in want of a wife. They wandered companionably towards the chapel, stained glass providing a softer focus from the stolid white stone of the construction. Tall for a lady, Sansa rather enjoyed walking with someone that she did not have to peer down at; Stark blood encouraged shortness, though Rickon promised great height given his growth patterns.

“No, and nor do I see myself entering the bliss of matrimony. I am happy with my own company, and that of my friends, and would not wish to shackle any lady to the wildest depths of Devon.”

“But it is a beautiful cou-”

She stopped, flustered, as a short man with pale eyes made his way toward them. How strangely he dressed; leather-coated and kid-skin breeched, and every piece of fabric and hide lay gleaming and black against his body. Espying them, the person grinned most disconcertingly.

Sansa was sure knew him, but she did not know from where.

“Morning, my lord.”

“Good morning, Mr. Bolton.”

He inclined his head at Lord Dondarrion, that impish expression turning his visage sinister. Silence stretched, like silk threads, and Sansa, unusually discomforted, spoke just to break the shimmer of tension. An aura of something unpleasant surrounded him, like a smog, or a dank fog, and the blackness penetrated the previous pleasure of chatting with charming Lord Dondarrion, turning the encounter from a lovely diversion into something less enjoyable.

“Are you coming to church also, Mr. Bolton?”

“I would, miss, but I am unsure if I’d burst into flames the moment I stepped over the threshold. Give my regards to the pretty vicar, will you not, my lord? I’ve just sent the men home to rest after their daring rescue mission.”

White. His irises possessed an icy, lily-paleness quite unlike anything Sansa saw in her life. Striking, yes, but curiously wild of nature; as if belonging to a creature pretending to be tranquil while underneath it sought blood.

“Of course, Bolton. My regards to your fellows.” Lord Dondarrion’s tone remained polite, a hint of warmth driving back her nervous thoughts. He did not seem upset by the gentleman’s approach, so perhaps it was her own apprehension given Bolton’s difference and appearance - and how he was strikingly familiar in a way she could not comprehend - that coloured her view?

A mockery of a bow, Sansa shivering as those limned eyes slithered across her, and the young man made his way from the churchyard towards where a shaggy-hooved cob dozed.

She still did not like him, she decided. Not at all. This Bolton seemed wilfully different, as if he wished to flaunt his strangeness, his clothing, his familiarity with aristocracy. Others in the same situation, when faced with their lord, would be far more humble. No one else presumed to stare up at Lord Dondarrion with an almost irresponsible disregard for his origin, his station in life, his goodness. Bolton approached them as if they were his equals and not his betters.

“Mr. Bolton,” Lord Dondarrion explained, “is my steward. He oversees the manual laborers upon my estate. Effective, yes, but he can be an acquired taste for many. He has been heading the rescue effort for the poor souls whose ship ran aground some days ago.”

“His eyes are most singular, ser.” Frightening. They lacked a humanity and warmth that most people possessed.

“He says they are very much like his father’s, though I have never had the honour of meeting the older Mr. Bolton.”

“Where we lived, at Winterfell,” Sansa ventured, for the name was of the young gentleman was most uncommon, “abutted the lands of a Lord Bolton. He and my father were business partners for a time, before he-”

Before Father died.

A large warm hand, no doubt scarred and roughened from soldiering and riding, gently lay across her own. For such a tall and broad man, Lord Dondarrion displayed a most reassuring carefulness and tact and, given his wealth and privilege, there must have been a good number of young women of fortune and breeding quite in love with him. “I am so very sorry for your loss, Miss Stark. It is so very obvious that you feel it most keenly, and I beg of you, if there is anything that I can do to assist, in any small way, then please, prevail upon me to do as is needed.”

 

* * *

 

Lord Dondarrion bade them sit in his family pew, at the very front of the church, before the tall oaken carved pulpit upon which a golden eagle shaped into a lectern glimmered softly. Arya kicked her legs with sulking boredom, and Robb appeared melancholy, but Sansa enjoyed a strange sort of peace; something so very rare in her existence since Father’s passing.

Much of that had to do with the solemn eyed reverend, clad in black, who read from the good Book with a rich accent that she was unable to quite place. This gentleman turned out to be the pretty vicar that the odd Mr. Bolton referred to, and Sansa admitted, quietly and with a no little admiration for who stood before her, that the man spoke true. The reverend possessed wide hazel eyes, and high cheekbones, and the sort of curls that any young woman would wish to possess; Sansa tried not to stare, but ended up helplessly gazing unabashed.

At least appearing to pay rapt attention to the sermon allowed her to not appear too eager.

“I see among you,” and his voice, though soft, rang true like a bronze bell throughout the small chapel, “brave souls, good men and women. The recent disaster of the ship wrecked upon the coast not a mile from where we sit saw so many of you rise, assist, give succour to our stricken brethren. Lord Dondarrion,” and here the solemn-eyed reverend smiled wistful, truly honoured at his congregation’s mercy and goodness.

Oh, he smiled, and Sansa’s heart skipped with how he shone, so bright and good and pure, in the dusty darkness of the church. Lord Dondarrion may be rich and titled, but the soft-eyed vicar possessed the sort of beauty that she always thought of as befitting a medieval princeling. In an instant she imagined him gorgeously attired in a velvet surcoat, a circlet of beaten silver at his brow, as noble a king as ever there was in the whole of England.

“...has promised to pay for the burials of those who perished upon the rocks. We ask they are committed to the Lord with the peace of death they did not receive in the last moments of their lives. Please, I ask you - if you can give a little to help those who survive, with naught but the remnants of clothes upon their backs, the collection will be donated to give every assistance to repatriate them to their families. A little milk of human kindness in the darkest hour will raise the spirit, strengthen the sinew, fire the blood.”

When the collection plate came to their pew, carried by a small gap-toothed girl with curling black hair and very blue eyes, she realised, stomach hollowing, that they had brought no coin for the donation. Robb caught her eye, cheeks aflame, equally distraught at the lack of propriety. Mother would be devastated by their inability to give. After all, was not the chapel the centre of village life? If they could not afford even a copper farthing, then how could they ever hope to create a niche of their own here?

“This is from both myself and the Starks of Honeysuckle Cottage,” Lord Dondarrion murmured gently, softly, to the young girl, placing a number of golden sovereigns into the bowl.

“We cannot afford to repay you.” Robb swallowed, standing tall and proud, the humiliation unsettled in his expression. He looked so devastatingly like Mother as they travelled south from Winterfell to Devon that Sansa reached over, caught his hand in hers, tried to soothe him with her touch.

“It is not to be repaid. This is what friends do, is it not? Help each other?”

“It is too much-”

Dondarrion’s gold-flecked eyes considered Robb, thoughtful. “You seem a capable sort of gentleman, Mr. Stark. Honest, and sensible, like your father. I knew him, a little. I knew your mother before, when she was but young, and I a little in love with her - all of the boys in Devon were, for Cat was fair, and lovely, and her hair-. You are very much like your mother, Miss Stark, Mr. Stark. The same colouring, though Miss Stark carries herself with a typical Tully air while you are far more northern in your countenance. But I also knew Ned, from our fighting days. Before you were born, I think. Before your eldest uncle died, and Ned received Winterfell.”

“You were in India with Father?” Arya gasped, pressing nearer to the tall bright-haired lord. “Did you kill a tiger? Father killed a tiger.”

“I saw him kill his tiger, Miss Arya. A magnificent beast, with teeth as long as your hand, and your father - a crack shot, Ned, a good commander of men and a person commanding utmost loyalty - put a ball through the creature’s heart at fifty paces.”

“He taught me to shoot, and fight, and ride.”

“Then you must come and shoot, and ride, with me.”

For the first time since they came to Devon, Arya grinned. Usually a taciturn girl of  near six-and-ten, she transformed when joyous from a sullen pale little thing into a maid who, one day, might even challenge her Aunt Lyanna for handsomeness.

They very rarely mentioned Aunt Lyanna, who eloped with a Dragon Prince of the East and bore a child out of wedlock. Jon came to live at Winterfell at his mother’s behest, for she and her lover could not remain; the resulting scandal shook England for some time. When her spurned fiance wed a wealthy Lannister heiress finally the country forgot about the wild-natured northern girl who cast aside money and power for a penniless but handsome gentleman. None knew if the couple lived. The last word from Lyanna and Rhaegar came ten years previous, detailing their living in Paris, asking for word of Jon.

“You’re far too kind, ser.”

“As I told Miss Stark earlier, ser, individuality should be encouraged in the young.” The way Lord Dondarrion spoke made him seem ancient, but in reality the man must only have been a little younger than Father, and Father had not been very old. “I would be most interested to see your abilities, Miss Arya.”

“I am the best at fencing, you’ll see!” Curling about herself with excitement, Arya glowed with inner excitement.

Lord Dondarrion, appeased by the girl’s reaction, turned to Robb. “Do you ride, Mr. Stark?”

“I do, ser.”

“I am always looking for an honest man to assist about the estate. Bolton currently serves as my steward, but his talents are better suited to other matters.” A faint curve tugged at the scarred corner of Lord Dondarrion’s lips. “From others I have spoken with over the years, you are the sort of young gentleman who could be an asset to one such as I.”

“Ser, you hardly know me, yet you offer me employment?” Aghast, Robb ducked his head, aghast at the friendly kindnesses displayed by a man who knew them so little that they never met him before that morning.

“Ser, I knew your father, and your mother. If I cannot be hopeful of your goodness after making their acquaintance, then nothing could convince me. Perhaps, if you are unsure, a trial can be arranged? You may come and see the workings of the estate, and I shall endeavour to explain them to you. I also invite you all to dine with me, and perhaps, when the weather is more pleasant, we shall have a pic-nic upon the cliffs overlooking the sea?”

“Oh, how lovely that would be.” To enjoy warmth, and the waves upon the shore. Sansa loved Winterfell, for the estate existed in her very bones, but even a damp May day in Devon seemed warm and balmy compared to a frigid summer in Yorkshire.

“I am taking delivery of a Spanish prisoner, and Lyme will soon host a resting battalion of soldiers who are back from fighting the French. Perhaps among them we shall find some others who will come to our repast, Miss Stark? I am not the sort to plot such events, but you, with your feminine sense, could make a magnificent occasion of it?”

Finally she understood, she realised. Lord Dondarrion did not just wish to assist them monetarily, but also to give them purpose. Of course he saw the shroud of depression and mourning that enveloped each and every Stark. Of course he knew that hard work and industry allowed those consumed by their own worry to rise above their upset. A most understanding gentleman, and kind, and decent, and truly lordly. Perhaps if she could make herself fall a little in love with Lord Dondarrion, it would be no hardship? Handsome he may not be, and he did not seem the sort to enjoy literature - more physical, perhaps, than scholarly - but his goodness recommended him despite his age and unfortunate injuries.

“Can I fight the Spaniard?” Arya asked, rather hopeful. “Will he have a Toledo blade?”

“I’m sure that the army will have taken his blade, Arya.”

“Maybe,” she replied in her pert manner, “I shall give it him back, then win the fight and claim his sword as my own.”

* * *

 

 

“Lovely as always, Reverend.” Dondarrion pressed his hand into Willas’ own, squeezing gently.

“You are too generous, ser.” The gold upon the collection plate would feed the poor sailors for a month at least. “I am in awe of your generosity.”

If another man spoke such, it may be seen as obsequious and obnoxiously crawling. However, Willas truly meant everything he uttered. The generosity of Lord Dondarrion allowed the village to exist a little more comfortably. The food parcels he himself took to the poor, paid for by Blackhaven estate, swelled with fresh produce. Fruit in December, and good white bread, and even a little meat and ale. Across England, in other parishes, the old and needy starved while their lords drank champagne and dined on venison. Here, however, the wealth touched every person, every house.

Blessed was the bounty, and the goodness of their Lord.

“This is Miss Stark. She, her mother, and her siblings, have come to live at Honeysuckle Cottage.”

“A pleasure, Miss Stark.” The girl - a fine, tall redhaired lady with a lovely countenance - dipped into a neatly perfect curtsey. Margaery would approve.

“Reverend. Thank you for the beautiful sermon.”

He managed his oddly stiffened bow, feeling the tug in his hip and leg, fighting back a grimace as pain threatened. “I am glad you found it pleasing. I do worry that my oratory skills are lacking compared to others.”

“You speak beautifully, ser. You have a poetic turn to your speech.”

“I do love poetry,” he admitted, a flush upon his cheeks. “Though I balance my enjoyment with more heavenly readings. While I very much admire the words of Byron and Southey, the most beautiful words are from the Good Book, I find.”

He was reminded, a little, of the courtesies and pretty speeches of the young ladies that Grandmother used to tempt him with. Miss Stark, who Olenna would adore given her poise, her handsomeness, her ancient and aristocratic name, would be very welcome in Gardd Uchel. The Tyrells adored beauty. Roses as fragrant and lovely scented as can be. The finest horses and hounds, and clothes, and victuals. Even the house and grounds indicated the taste and clever eye of the family; modern, and elegant, and perfect in turn. Willas often found himself a little lost, a little obvious, amongst it all. His likes proved rather less pristine. Oh, he adored the best of horses, the most loyal and intelligent of dogs; he was a Tyrell after all. Blood will out, even if mostly he turned towards quietude and academia than society and grandness. Even Willas had his vices, which he left far behind the moment he came to Devon.

“I adore Byron. He’s so romantic.”

If Miss Stark met George, she may have been a little disappointed. Willas admired his friend, but admitted the man’s flaws - lust, avarice, greed, all in one red-headed club-footed package - were very unlike the portrait painted by Byron’s pen. His writing encouraged a passionate ideal of this darkly-romantic hero for whom even death could be vanquished. Definitely not a man who, if he allowed his own appetite for eating, ran towards the chubby.

“Reverend Tyrell knows the gentleman,” Dondarrion interjected, and the young lady’s eyes sparkled with wonder.

“Are you friends with him, ser?” She had a very pretty voice; one that, he decided, must grace the small chapel choir.

“We were at Cambridge together, Miss Stark. I lived a few rooms from him.”

“How wonderful-”

A looming dark shadow engulfed the small patch of brightness in which they stood. Willas did not need to look to see who made it.

“Reverend.”

“Mr. Clegane.”

Miss Stark turned to give her well-mannered hello. In a moment her expression changed from pleasing and warm to utterly horrified, thoroughly transfixed upon the man afore them.

Oh dear.

Of course he understood. Mr. Clegane had that effect upon many in the village. A vast monolith of a man, so very massive, so very imposing. He stood even taller and broader than Lord Dondarrion, though his general demeanour could never be compared with his employer. Whereas the good lord smiled, and charmed, and spoke eloquently of social justice and the necessity of wealth being shared amongst the population, Mr. Clegane glowered, and glared, and talked very little. Beneath his dark clothing - heavy woollen broadcloth, long scuffed boots, a coat fitting tightly to his enormously wide shoulders - he seemed carved from solid Scottish rock.

Most taciturn, the Scotch, according to that awful Mr. Baelish.

The man’s fierce grey eyes slid across Miss Stark’s hair, her pretty face, even considering her slender body most crudely, before he grunted.

“See something, girl?”

“I-I am sorry, ser. I did not mean to stare.”

Everyone who met Mr. Clegane suffered a similar fate. How could they not when his scarring, so deep and entrenched and horrific, stood so stark and red and silver upon his cheek? How could a person avert their gaze when suddenly presented with such terrible injury, when one could not look away because of a sick sort of shock?  Willas, who suffered his own ruin but beneath his clothing, felt a strange brotherhood with the Scotsman, with Lord Dondarrion. Each one of them suffered wounds that set them apart from others, and that few accepted.

Beric rose above everything with his natural demeanour, his good cheer, his wealth and connexion. Willas, too, knew his privilege afforded him some protection, as did concealing his scars. They saw a limp, but the horror of twisted bone and damaged tissue lay hidden beneath fabric. Clegane, without a grand name to recommend him, and the wounds so very great and deep and all-enveloping, showed his teeth and savaged those who reacted.

“Stare, girl. Take your fill if you must.”

Shrinking back, Miss Stark pressed closer to the protective bulk of Lord Dondarrion.

“Miss Stark, this is Mr. Clegane. He is young Mr. Baratheon’s gentleman. Mr. Clegane, this is Miss Stark, who is recently come to Devon and resides at Honeysuckle Cottage. Are you staying long in Devon, Mr. Clegane?” Dondarrion reached out a hand, and, to Willas’ quiet surprise, Clegane returned the shake. For all of the enmity that the Scotsman radiated, he always held Lord Dondarrion in a certain regard.

“A wee while. Joff’s had to leave London again. Something about-” He paused, for nothing gracious ever came from Joffrey Baratheon’s exile to Devon - the occurrence happened more often than not - watching Miss Stark for a moment longer than proper, “an encounter.”

“I see.”

“Brought the donation.” Delving into the inner pocket of his coat, so large that Willas wondered if it could be used as a tent, Clegane extricated a folded pound note, handed it to Dondarrion. “For the poor."

“The poor shall thank you deeply, Clegane.”

Willas, aware of a subtext that lay just below the surface of those words, wondered what it all truly meant.

 

* * *

 

Dry land. Tarth swallowed and took his first steps upon the solidly comforting stone pier. Even then, upon ground that did not move, his stomach and head still roiled; it took a day, perhaps two, to regain land legs. Even so, the delight of air only mildly tainted salt and the warm succour of bustling Lyme turned this rather discomforting feeling into a far more pleasant emotion.

“Which way’s Dondarrion’s then, lieutenant?”

“West, along the coast and perhaps a mile inland.”

“Have you met him? Rum cove that he is.”

“No, ser, but I have heard of him. He has commendations for bravery, and fought with Stark’s Rifles in Mysore.” Legends surrounded Ned and his riflemen. Mythology.

Lannister’s expression gleamed, unfairly handsome. “Yes. Against old Tipu. Ned told his children that he shot a tiger, but never specified it was the Tiger of Mysore himself. No, Beric Dondarrion is odd  - all these strange notions about equality for peasants and such, which makes him unpopular with most of the aristocracy but he doesn’t seem to care. To be perfectly honest, I blame it on him being shot in the head. Has to do something to a man, does it not? Excellent soldier, of course, if accident prone. I rather like him, even if he tries to get himself killed upon a regular basis. Did you know they’ve announced him dead half a dozen times in _The Times_? It must be most boring reading one’s own obituary so often.”

“Will Don Oberyn be adequately contained at Blackhaven?” He had a rusty notion of a sprawling pale-stoned manor in a Palladian style, with long white colonnades, and perhaps a peacock. When Tarth was young, and Selwyn more inclined to leave the Isle, they often visited the grand homes of the noble and the good. Tarth remembered a large hand in his, Father’s blue eyes twinkling down; Tarth had been a towheaded ragamuffin child in a sea-coloured gown decorated with Belgian lace. Of course, this was before Lord Beric became the master of his estate, when his father still lived and Galladon had not yet died.

“It’s in the arse end of nowhere. Martell is more likely to die of boredom than manage to escape.” Spoken like a true city man.

“The coast is very near, and Sr. Martell is very charming-”

“I’ve seen his eyes on you. These Spaniards are particularly susceptible to tall blond boys.” An elbow found his ribs, Tarth scowling. In moments like these, just the two of them, their friendship shimmered, delicate and tangible. “Especially ones that could ruin them with a snap of their thighs.”

“He has also considered you, ser. You are far more handsome than I.”

“True, true,” the major chuckled. “But you are far better built than I, and possess all of your extremities.”

“And none of your balls, ser.”

How true a statement could be.

Lannister swung an arm across Tarth’s broad shoulders, wrapped stump resting lightly upon red stiffened serge, amusement alight in those sharp green eyes and wincing only a little. “Are you joining the others in their whoring? I hear the ladies of Lyme are eager for their sailor boys to come back, yet even more eager for the brave lads in scarlet. Tyrion’d say a new cock is far more exciting than one scaled before for any girl.”

Bawdiness existed, deeply entrenched within a system built upon men, and their sweat, and blood, and death. Camp followers multiplied within permanent military encampments; many an officer had a native ‘wife’ before sailing for Britain and settling with a good white Christian lady. Tarth, tall and fair-natured, attracted a share. He, rather than threatening his precarious position, directed them towards the kinder and more generous men of the company.

He and Lannister stood apart. The major, the most handsome of them all, never took a lover. He sometimes spoke of a woman he left behind in a peculiarly bitter tone, pain etching the jade gaze almost acidic. She broke his heart, he said. He shattered himself upon the wheel of love, imperilled his everything, and she dallied with other men. Beautiful, she was, and as golden-haired as him.

Tarth commented, one day, when billeted in some filthy Portuguese hovel near Lisbon, when Lannister showed him the miniature of his long-lost love, that they seemed almost like twins. The painting, a good likeness, possessed the same haughty confidence, and shining hair, and emerald-green eyes. A comment about narcissism did not bring the customary humoured snort. The major rubbed his thumb across the cracked glass atop the portrait, smiling with the broken horror of one who had lost everything, and still wished to give more, if only to see his love once more in his arms.

“The brothels are not to my taste.”

“Speaking of brothels - we should move Oberyn. Where is-?”

For a moment panic seized both men, hands flying to swords.

Lannister barked out a mirthless sound of irritation as his stump clattered into the pommel. “Damn it, Tarth. When will I remember?”

Tarth ached for him.

“He’s there, ser. He’s talking with the captain.” Flirting, more likely. The seaman, a Manxman with an eyepatch and a sneering expression, seemed rather dazed by the attentions of a Spanish prince.

“A rogue, Tarth. A handsome rogue. Do not be fooled, and keep your backside from his lecherous hands.”

“My backside is free of any hands, ser.”

That gleam, that humour, sparked once more; mercurial moods and strange tempers wracked Lannister since the loss of limb.

“How are you so pure, Tarth? You are the best bloody soldier I have, and what, you’re eighteen-?”

“Twenty one, sir,” came the reminder.

“Egad. Fourteen years between us, boy. Yet you’re more mature than I could ever strive for. How do you maintain that decorum when all about you fuck and whore?”

“I take inspiration from my senior officer, ser.”

Lannister shifted, as elegant and poetic as one of the heroes in Tarth’s romantic novels, winked, then slapped him upon the arse with a calloused hand. “There. Let no man know that Brian Tarth has not had a hand on his bum!” He paused, then grinned, so very wide and bright. “I’ll not tell the lads that your red-haired Ros never had you. How much coin did it take to persuade her to boast of your prowess in the bed chamber?”

“I-” Damn it all.

“You have my secrets. I have yours. Now, we shall truly be friends, you and I.”

What secrets that he kept of the major’s, Tarth did not know. However, given the man’s expression, the lingering smirk on those passionate lips, the warmth flowing at the young lieutenant’s belly at the affirmation of friendship, he decided to consider everything that Lannister had said to him in the past at another time.

“Then we shall be-”

A hand found his seat, dipping up under his tunic, fingers trailing.

“Ah, we must make that two hands, my lovely lieutenant,” murmured Oberyn, the devil cantering in his blackish coal eyes.

 

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

 

“I’m not attending a pic-nic. They’ll expect me to drink tea and be a lady, and I do not wish to do either. Gendry says he shall show me how to whetstone a blade, and that’s far more exciting than boring old Lord Beric, even if he did help Father kill a tiger!”

“Arya! His name is Lord Dondarrion. Please do not be so familiar with the gentleman when you have met but once. Please tell me that you’ve not called him such?” Her sister could drive the most saintly of siblings to an early grave, Sansa swore. She’d mentioned this Gendry boy, the local blacksmith’s pupil, thrice that morning, often with a gleaming warmth about her expression. Having had a crush upon Jon at approximately the same age, Sansa did understand.

Though what Arya saw in the tall, very muscular boy - very common, and possessing a broad accent that made his speech rather impenetrable to those unaccustomed with the local drawl - she did not know. Grubby, and yes, handsome enough, with the same bright blue eyes as others in the village, but brutish and calloused about the hands.

Not like Reverend Tyrell, with his long scholar’s fingers, and cheekbones, and wonderful manners. Gendry radiated a shocking voracious masculinity compared to the solemn eyed vicar’s gentle sensibilities.

“You’re thinking about the vicar again,” Arya commented. “Even if he’s horribly wet-”

“He’s not wet. He’s charming, and kind, and speaks so beautifully.”

“And a Tyrell.” Her sister, beady, snorted. “The shit one that isn’t inheriting a bean because he likes God more than girls.”

“Arya!” Scandalised, Sansa quashed the urge to box the little minx’s ears. “What have I told you about listening to village gossip? What have we all told you about coarse language?”

“Mattos told me. He said that the Reverend was going to inherit everything and turned it down.”

“Tell Mattos,” she snapped acidly, “that he should never spread idle gossip because one day someone shall spread it about him.”

“I like Mattos.” Arya dawdled, trailing and uncaring.

After three days of rain, being trapped within the gloom of Honeysuckle Cottage and vexed by Rickon’s refusal to read his lessons, Arya’s pacing - she loathed being indoors when all the world could be explored - and even Bran’s quietude, Sansa insisted that, at the first sign of sunshine, they would take a turn along the coastal path that began immediately outside their home.

Sansa hated mud, wet, hillwalking, midges, rain, and cold, but she needed to escape from the tomb-like silence of the house. Mother still remained in her chamber, Beth, their housekeeper, taking meals to her. Robb, with good-humour hiding his damaged pride, had gone to work.

Robb. Who should by rights be the lord of Winterfell. Working for a living.

Sansa shivered with horror.

“Can we go to the village?”

“We are not going to the village. Fresh air is healthier than the smithy.”

“You hate walking. Why are we walking? You’re just upset that you’ve not been able to see your pretty vicar for almost a week, and because he fancies God and not you!”

“-Arya.”

“I’m going to the village.” The girl, cropped hair damp and limp about her face, shawl wrapped about her shoulders and hands, snarled. “You can’t stop me. I’m going to go and get warm, and talk with Gendry, and he’ll show me how to make swords. If I can’t be home in Yorkshire, I’d rather be anywhere that doesn’t involve you!”

With that, she turned on her boot heel, rigid with spite, and splashed off.

Sansa stared into the greyness of a damp Devonian day, trying not to cry.

Father always said that she turned out to be the lady of them all. _Like my Cat_ , he’d proclaimed, so very proud. A proper young lady who’d one day become a fine wife of an equally fine gentleman. He found relating to his eldest daughter a little difficult; Eddard discovered that the natural growth of a girl towards womanhood meant losing a child. As Sansa matured, her body and nature reflecting her age, he seemed to retreat a little, as if unable to cope with his dear daughter becoming her own person. Frustrated at being treated still as young, and foolish, she perhaps grew haughty. A doll sneered at, or his hand reaching for hers spurned. Little incidents that mattered not, in the grand scheme of the world, until Father died.

Regrets always festered. Never loving Jon as the brother he truly was, merely treating him as a cousin. Finding Arya difficult, and never understanding how a sister could differ so greatly from herself. Never telling Papa - always Papa, until her twelfth nameday where Sansa proclaimed that only children called their sire that, and from now on Ned would be Father - she loved him.

Above her, clouds wheeled and writhed; grey scudding across white where the winds of the atmosphere raged. For all her determination to walk, wipe the dust of the house from her feet and take in the bracing sea air, everything still dripped melancholy about her.

She wrapped her arms about her, wishing that everything could be different, but it could never be. Not now. Papa still lay in the cold ground at Winterfell kirkyard, and that was that.

A sharp breath in. Another, until her lungs felt as if they could burst, before Sansa straightened her shoulders and picked her way over muddied stones and grass. The air tasted different as she approached the white-chalked edges of the cliffs; a strident saltiness across her tongue and in her nose. Alien thought it may have been, it picked at her senses and span Sansa a thread of curiosity.

How different Devon truly was to Yorkshire. How tamed at the villages, but wild at the seas. From her bedroom window she and Arya saw large ships, flying a variety of colours, battling water and tide and winds. When they visited Whitby, and Rickon had been a mere babe in arms and Bran still walked then, the genteel nature of a town caught between whaling and the growth of visiting by the better classes created a most wonderful sense of drama. They raced along cobbled streets, climbing high up towards the most romantic ruins of the abbey, saw the carcasses of the beasts brought to land. Father bought mother a chain of silver with a carved piece of jet that made her smile and her eyes glow. Arya fell in with urchins, as she always did, and Robb charmed the young ladies of the town with his smile and looks even at such a young age.

Here, so barren and needle-rocked, so dangerous and vast, she felt as if her soul could fly from her very being. Wind whipped and snapped, and above her the clouds galloped like the wild ponies that existed upon the moorland to the north and east.

Sansa, in such a reverie, did not see the burrow.

A moment, yes, and the sky wheeled and the grass dripped, and then the pain caught her ankle so very sharply that she gasped, unable to do anything more. Such was the agony that all she could truly do was slump and press her gloved fingers against her mouth, tiny squeaks escaping her lips as breath and panic.

It hurt. Very greatly. It hurt, and Sansa tried so hard to stand but the limb refused to hold her, and in a moment she collapsed in a heap of skirts and miserable self-pitying tears.

Would she truly die here, upon the cliffs? Would they find her before cold and exposure took her life?

Pain made Sansa less sensible, less level-headed. For all her love of knights, and fairy tales, and wishing to be rescued from her situation by some white-clad man upon a handsome steed, she normally ran to sense and calmness. Others always commented about her manner, and her smile, and how she seemed so collected in any given crisis. Of course, underneath her swan-like grace, she paddled frantically to remain afloat, but she always managed to remain her mother’s daughter. Alone, however, sore and upset about her spat with Arya, and longing for home, and feeling so desperately low, she allowed her emotions to overcome.

She did not see the approaching coal-black horse, heavy hooves crunching at sparse soil and chalk.

A hand found her shoulder, unexpected and frightening, and Sansa screamed.

“Hush, girl. You’ll spook the horse.”

Only one man spoke in a Scotch burr, of heath and heather and Highland. He stood, clad in black and grey, looking down at her from his vast height with a glinting eye and curling cynic of a mouth. At this angle, when all she saw was long untamed hair, and the solidity of jawline, and capability, and strength, he seemed the most welcome gentleman in the whole of Europe.

“I fell,” she said, sniffing and wiping her now grubby gloves about her eyes.

“Rabbits are bastards, all over here - the cliff tops are riddled with burrows, and they’ll have even a strong man over if you’re not sure of the ground. Let alone a wee slip of a girl like you.”

“I can’t stand-”

A grunt, a most calculated look,, before Clegane had his arms about her, lifting Sansa as if she were nothing but a bundle of laundry. She thought Lord Dondarrion displayed a pleasing though ungentlemanly muscularity under his coat, but he proved to be nothing compared to the flexing bulk of the Scotsman. Up, she was lifted, up and up, until higher than her usual height, easily held in a grasp made of steel and iron rather than flesh and bone.

He had, as obviously Mr Clegane was no gentleman, not asked for permission to touch her.

Why that sent a thrill of excitement through her body, she did not understand. Sansa blushed, cheeks warm, determinedly fixing her gaze upon the crown of his hat as he adjusted her with contemptuous ease.

A click of his tongue, his large black stallion following like a dog, and Mr Clegane carried her back towards Honeysuckle Cottage. No conversation was had. No pretty words, or comments about how she fared, or even acknowledgment of her being in his arms, but he strode easily and comfortably across the difficult terrain, and he never faltered.

Another spark seared her lungs, Sansa catching a breath she did not even know she held when his fingers tightened upon her thigh, her body.

Truly, now the shock of seeing the ruination of a face that, if the other half spoke correctly must have been quite pleasing his accident, had eroded, the scars did not seem so very awful after all. Not when worn by a man so masculine, and unbreakable, and stronger than any other man she had known, apart from Father.

 

* * *

 

“Blackhaven. Quite the pile, eh, Tarth?”

Given their status as officers, and their precious prisoner who charmed even the most dour-faced of quartermasters, they had been furnished with the means to make their way up from portage to the manor of Lord Dondarrion.

It had not changed much, Blackhaven. The white portico still stood stark against the dipping parkland, the terrace in the Arcadian style so beloved of previous centuries. Italian influenced, with wings, and statues, the grounds remained suitably English in setting, with Capability Brown style flora and fauna, and an avenue of yew trees, gnarled and speaking most discomfortingly of death, sheltering them as they rode along the chip-covered driveway.

“The trees seem larger, but the house smaller. I was only very young when I visited with my father, however, and Lord Dondarrion had already gone soldiering. I have never met the man.”

“You’re in for a treat, lieutenant. You’re rather his type.”

Oberyn made an interested sound, lounging elegantly upon a rather fine mare he persuaded from one of the Brigadiers who greeted them from the ship. However much the Spaniard alluded to Tarth’s gender, he remained, as he promised, close-lipped and genial.

It proved difficult to even attempt to dislike Sr. Martell. He smiled, and flattered, and flirted outrageously, and that naturally set Tarth upon an edge where he worried about issues that could arise, but under the louche and beautiful exterior - oh, and Oberyn Martell was a shockingly handsome man, even with silver at his temples and laughter lines at the corners of his expressive and clever dark eyes - he truly seemed a decent sort of person. An honourable man, if allowed the respect he earned. The sort of man who could be a loyal and loving friend, and a devil of an enemy as many had discovered to their cost.

“You’re his type as well, do not fret my Spanish friend.” Lannister grinned, gold to Oberyn’s gleaming bronze. “He has no wife, and will not take one, for he prefers a strapping lad to a pretty girl. Maybe your stay here will be pleasant for both of you?”

Along the avenue, into a roundish courtyard set with small pebbles of white chalk. The closer they came to the house, the more eerie the manse grew. Faint cracks spidered along pale cream walls, and mosses and lichen grew abundant upon decorative motifs and ornamentation. Wetness pervaded, and, with Tarth used to the dry choking dust of Spain, dampness dripped from leaves and sweated from stone in a thoroughly unpleasant manner.

“Jaime Lannister, as I live and breathe! Welcome to Blackhaven.”

The speaker stood upon the low steps before the heavy front door, tall and well-formed and soldierly in manner. Even now, several years away from the army, he retained the movement and bearing of a man in uniform despite a scarred face and missing an eye. Lannister warned them both previously of the Lord of Blackhaven’s injuries, though as soldiers themselves the ruination did not move them to pity; Beric Dondarrion killed the Tiger, after all, under the command of the brave Captain Stark.

“You never change.” Lannister slid from his horse, strode over, forgot and offered his stump. Tarth ached for him, once again, at each little disrememberence of his injury and his loss.

“Gods, Jaime. What happened?”

“I never liked the Swiss. Awful race of people. Horribly accurate with weaponry when riled.”

Something deepened in the gazes of both men, a passing understanding between those maimed in service, and Lord Dondarrion shook his left hand instead.

“Now, will you introduce me to your friends?”

“I see you’ve retained some semblance of manners, Beric. Getting shot through the head hasn’t beaten them from you?”

The man laughed, all strong teeth and warmth. “Unlike you, who is truly aristocratic, us minor lords need to be nice to survive.” A quiet youth came and took the horses, Tarth murmuring a polite thank you that earned him nod and a tip of a cap.

“Hells to it. You’re the nicest person I know, apart from Tarth, and he’s an angel in gangling Devonian form.”

“Tarth?” Amber eyes met the lieutenant’s bright blue, genial and truly good-natured, and both men bowed. “Selwyn’s boy, I presume? How wonderful to have one of our brave lads home safe and sound. Your father was a good friend of my father, though I’m sure we have never met? I joined up when I was very young, and you’re, what, eight and ten?”

“One and twenty, my Lord.” Everyone underestimated his age, somewhat frustratingly at times.

“Yes, I was well into my commission when you would have visited. Now you are here, and I find we are neighbours, I am most pleased to make your acquaintance,” and Dondarrion glanced at the stripes upon Tarth’s shoulder, “lieutenant. And this, I presume, is my guest? A pleasure to finally meet you, ser.”

“Ah, it is all mine.” Instead of the more usual pleasantries, the prince kissed Lord Dondarrion lightly upon both cheeks. “I feel we shall be most comfortable together, yes?”

Quiet smiles, almost testing something secretive and understood by both before a clearing of the throat and the crunch of boots upon gravel drew Dondarrion back a little, and he half-turned to greet a malevolent young man who stared at Oberyn Martell most pertly, with a nod.

“The Spaniard?” Yorkshire accented like that of the Snow boy Tarth met when leaving for Spain, who made officer before his feet left Britain. None of the lilt and honesty of Jon, none of the down-to-earth vague melancholy, but something darker and primeval and brutal in turn.

“Yes.”

This Bolton character considered Oberyn Martell, cold eyes assessing the man, before he shrugged, fracturing the heaviness of atmosphere that glowered and laid upon them all even with the palest sunlight attempting to break through sodden grey cloud.

“I shall watch him for you. My Lord. He shall neither misstep nor touch what does not belong to him.”

Tarth shivered. He had faced down the finest that the allied armies of Napoleon could produce, the deaths of friends, the maiming of the man he respected more than any other. The passing of his brother, and father. The necessity of removing the trappings of femininity and becoming the second Galladon. Whatever Tarth had encountered, and he encountered much in his brief lifespan, nothing produced such a heinous chill in his breast and discomfort in his head as the mere presence of Bolton.

“If that’s the Bolton I’m convinced it is,” Lannister murmured under his breath, head turned slightly to afford none his speech but the lieutenant, “then we need to be most careful indeed.”

Tarth raised his pale eyebrows.

“Let us say,” the Major continued, _sotto voce_ , “that his father is even worse.”

 

* * *

 

“Letters for you, ser,” piped a boy riding a shaggy moorland pony and covered in a faint spattering of mud.

Willas gave the boy a shilling, bade his thanks as the child squeaked with excitement of actual silver in his palm, and retreated to his study to open the creamy envelopes.

One from Margaery, who always wrote labouredly in emerald ink, dated from four months previous - envelopes did go awry sometimes, to be found and delivered when rediscovered. Another from Garlan, rather more recent, with his bold capitalisation and slightly stumbling spelling; Grandmother always said that Willas’ own intellectual ability came from her, while his brothers proved far more like Father. The last, the writing, sloping and a little untidy, hinting at a mind more driven by action than letters, proved a delicious surprise.

A whole fort-night had not yet passed, but Lord Dondarrion sent a request for his presence? Perhaps the ships had returned to Lyme, and his fabled Spaniard even now settled within the lofting chambers of Blackhaven?

 _My dearest Reverend_ , the letter began. Lord Beric wrote well, but in the manner of a person with too little time upon his hands to devote himself to crafting letters of penmanship and sentiment. Willas enjoyed matching personalities to handwriting. His own flowed and flitted across pages, a mixture of English when alert, Welsh when sleepy, and Latin when couching his own thoughts in something few others could understand.

Even men of the cloth had secrets that needed to ke kept; his leg, his heart, his soul. All of him, kept in the language of the intellectual. Sometimes he attempted to recall his very rusty Greek for the same purpose.

 

_My dearest Reverend,_

_I hope that this letter finds you well, and that the parish prospers. If there is anything required, please ask - you do not need to limit yourself to Sundays and the collection plate. You are always welcome at my door, and my home is open to you whenever you so desire. There are few who I consider equals in our small corner of Devon, and you, ser, are a good friend and a better man than I._

_I have but one question to ask, and it is strange, but there is reason behind it. Are you familiar at all with Catholicism? I ask only because my present guest is of the Catholic faith and requested a priest to hear his confession. When I informed him that we have no such priests in the area, he informed me that he is willing to speak with an Anglican vicar when one can be found, and then alluded to us being godless heathens in such an amused tone that I could not help but laugh!_

_Perhaps you would attend? I am unsure of what Prince Oberyn requires, but I have promised him that he shall not be burned at any stake as a heretic, and we are, in all honesty, rather a progressive little village in regards to personal freedoms and the good of the people. You may, as I always tell you, visit whenever you so wish, but for the health and spirituality of my guest, I hope you see us both soon._

_Yours,_

_Beric Dondarrion._

 

Underneath someone had scrawled - truly scrawled, in a cramped and spiked hand - a postscript in pencil.

 

_Now the deeds of the flesh are evident, which are: immorality, impurity, sensuality. You may be needed to save whatever souls are left, pretty vicar, before we are even more damned._

 

Galatians, if memory served correctly. For all that Mr Bolton refused to attend church, and Willas discovered rather recently that the man’s own father came from puritanical stock and beat the word of the Lord into his son with tongue and lash - no wonder Mr Bolton could be so, and here he struggled for a word that would not come, for describing Lord Dondarrion’s estate manager could be a difficult task at the best of times - he knew his Bible very well indeed. Often a letter came, and the seal unbroken suggested that Beric allowed his employee to write before placing signet to wax, scribed with a slightly worrying quote from scripture. Mostly threatening, and always damning.

He pondered, before tidying away his sermon and wrapping his riding cloak about his shoulders.

Where Lord Dondarrion was concerned, for Reverend Tyrell, nothing could be too arduous. Such a fine gentleman, and a Godly man, who cared and loved for his village and his people, and if he could do a little to ease the burden of running Blackhaven and the estates, then it seemed only fit that he abandon his laboured writing and greet the Spanish prince as asked.

 

* * *

 

“I know little of Catholicism,” Dondarrion sighed. He looked tired, and the Reverend fretted lightly at his side. The ride from the village to Blackhaven was never long, or arduous, but for a man ruined so completely at one thigh and his groin, even this easy amble across grasses and sloping climbs proved exhausting. Usually the carriage collected him, but since Lord Beric did not know Willas would proceed straight to the manor, no comfort could be expected.

His pony, a fat and placid native beast with a dull wit and plodding nature, proved stalwart once more. Merry never wished to break his slow meander into something as exciting as a trot; a crippled rider upon a stubbornly slow horse suited very well.

“I know what I have read, and that is a start I think?” He adjusted his stance, pain finally calmed with brandy and a touch of laudanum, though Willas drank little of either solution. Just enough to remove that hideous edge that tore him open, exposed his fragility, without dampening his mind and spirit. Others in similar situations drank too much. They turned to gin and wine, and drowned within barrels and bottles. Reverend Tyrell remained proud enough to resist the lure, and suffered for his pride daily.

“Better than I. Bolton thinks he will seduce us in our beds. He wishes to protect my virtue,” and something glittered in the amber golden iris. “I have told Bolton that he is either hopefully desiring such, or reads far too many novels that describe Spaniards as unrepenting leches.”

Willas, who did actually read such novels and found himself dreaming sometimes of warmth and balmy air and the beauty of the Alhambra and Spain herself, pressed his fingers over his smiling mouth. “What did Mr Bolton say?”

Such a strange relationship, that of Lord Dondarrion and his estate manager. Bolton did not afford the usual courtesies given to a peer of the realm, but once, after dinner, when more than a little drunk, Beric - he insisted upon Beric when he and Willas were alone - explained the parentage of the frightening young man. An aristocratic father, but born out of wedlock to a woman of lesser social status; caught between worlds, and hating every piece of either. Sometimes he felt rather sorry for Mr Bolton, before remembering the icy expression, the sneering and curling mouth, the delight in perverting the natural order, the bizarre hold he had over Lord Beric.

Perhaps feeling sorry was not a correct choice of words? Pity, perhaps, along with a healthy dose of fear. Sorrow, for what he could have been given a more robust upbringing. Sometimes Reverend Tyrell entertained that perhaps his emotions were misplaced, and Ramsay Bolton could truly be considered evil. For a man of God, who believed completely in the sacrifice of Christ, in the Covenant between Lord and Man, the thought truly terrified him; if a person, a babe, could be formed and evil the moment it came into the world, then could Man truly have free will? Could Man truly be saved?

“He swore at me, and stormed away to tend the hounds.” As always a certain mote of fondness shone bright in the man’s low-pitched voice. Why he enjoyed the company of Mr Bolton Willas did not know, but perhaps in the young man Lord Beric saw something that the rest of the village preferred not to see?

They proceeded along a gloomy corridor, decorated with ancient cloth of Arras and embroidered hangings. Given the size of the house Beric did not open some of the rooms for months upon end. Best they remain closed and locked, and the main quarters tended, than attempting to run the entire manor as one. If he perhaps had a helpmeet in life, Blackhaven would then thrive once more, but the only lady Lord Dondarrion showed any interest in, and that was because of his goodly nature rather than wishing for a greater connexion, was pretty Miss Stark. Who, admittedly, was shockingly pretty.

Not to Lord Beric’s taste, of course.

Reverend Tyrell attended Cambridge. He knew, more than many would, that some men were not formed to love women, some were born to love both sexes, some created to adore the feminine form exclusively. He himself had no opinion upon the matter, and had never met a person who brought him from his haze of academia and writing, theology and philosophy. He doubted the person to rouse his senses truly existed. Willas did not mind, for he knew that some - Newton, for example, so studious and wracked with genius, and driven by alchemy and science -  preferred not to share their lives with another. It was a natural order in all things.

If the solemn eyed reverend sometimes, in the darkness of a chill night and addled with tiredness, wondered what kisses and a meeting of minds could be like, he did not mention such to anyone. Especially himself, when the next morn finally dawned.

Beric rapped upon the door with lightly bruised knuckles - he did not seem to be tending to himself, given the tiredness, the injury - and a voice tinted with sands and sherry announced the door to be unlocked. Tormenting himself could only lead to true misery.

The chamber rose above their heads in swirling plaster bosses and flaking gold paint, the walls wooden panelled and handsome. Before this incarnation of Blackhaven an Elizabethan longhouse stood upon the same spot; much of the interior had been reused in the rebuilding. This room, all cream and oak and russet, glimmered as some jewelled miniature of the Tudors. Even the furniture - and Willas, who loved beauty in form and craftsmanship, wishing to stroke the carving, admire the brocade - spoke of an age long ago.

“Don Oberyn, may I introduce you to Reverend Tyrell? He is the gentleman I spoke of, who may be more able than others to-”

The most handsome man who ever lived smiled up from behind a table, upon which sat ink pots and papers, and Willas stared. How could he not?

No, the room was no jewel. It faded into grey and brown when Señor Martell tilted his head, dark and silver hair a glossy sheen, eyes deeper than the pools upon the Dartmoor tors. He possessed a noble air tempered with a keen and penetrating gaze, though something rather playful danced upon his visage.

“Bolton is correct, Reverend,” and the voice? That voice swam with port and caramel and chocolate, sang rich and baritone from those smiling lips. “You are indeed most pretty.”

Willas turned scarlet and pale in turn, tried to say something, and Beric, seeing the expression upon the man’s face, rescued him as he tended to rescue everyone.

“You are incorrigible, Oberyn. Not all of us respond well to your flirtations, and Reverend Tyrell is the most Godly man I have ever met. Behave yourself, or you shall find yourself with no man of the cloth to talk with, and none of those iced biscuits you have taken to. Would you like tea, Willas?”

“Oh. Yes. Yes please.”

Lord Dondarrion’s hand laid lightly upon his shoulder, thumb tracing tiny circles, soothingly solid. “Cake?”

“Is there raisin cake?” Hopefully.

“My dear reverend,” and the warm voice embraced, “there is always raisin cake for you. I will return. As I said, Oberyn. Behave yourself.” He bowed, and departed, leaving Willas quivering and confused and overly warm about his wrists and neck.

“My apologies, Reverend. Will you sit?” The Spaniard indicated a handsome padded chair with an elegant hand. Everything Martell did contained some sort of flourish; he moved like a chevalier, and a dancer, and an assassin, rolled into the most striking of packages.

“Thank you. Lord Beric a-asked me to come to see you, because I’m the reverend. Oh, of course you know that. You called me that. I am so sorry, truly, but I-I know only a little of your religion, but I have read extensively about it, and I’m sure I-” Willas settled, thigh aching most unpleasantly despite the drink and drug, for when faced with someone such as Señor Martell, he seemed to have sobered even from the tiny sips so rapidly that all seemed strange and vaguely unpleasantly sticky.

“Your name, it reminds me,” interrupted Prince Oberyn, as charming as any courtesan. “An English friend I have spoke once of an acquaintance he has. A university friend, most beautiful, George told me, of great piety and sweetness, of good manner and excellent birth. He spoke very true, did he not? I myself think he spoke most true, upon meeting you, Reverend Tyrell.” The man moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue; his beautifully groomed moustaches framed his mouth, all pink and plush and as if painted by some over-enthusiastic and overtly sensual Renaissance artist.

University friend? Oh. Yes. Conversation to be answered, and Reverend Tyrell rummaged, thought, then realised who talked of whom with a growing embarrassed heat. “George? Really? You know Byron?”

“I know many fascinating people, yes.” Why the man eyed him so Willas did not know.

“I did not know he visited Spain?” He flailed for something, anything. This. Yes, this. A safe subject, this seemed, along with conversing about the weather, and the price of fish at the harbour.

“Ah, he did not. We met in Venice. A most romantic city, Venice. Canals, and crumbling palazzo, and sad-beautiful people living upon a history filled with intrigue, and lust, and murder. I could have stayed forever, yet the call of my homeland required me return. His poetry is,” and Don Oberyn examined his long fingers, “a whirling tempest of emotion that rends and tears. It is not the poetry of a gentleman, but something that cannot be born of one who is not. Rules shatter, and it is most modern and vibrant and horrifying in turn. He wishes to publish more, does he not?”

“The _Edinburgh Review_ did not agree with you, ser. They were most scathing with George’s first work.” How could a man speak so beautifully, and eloquently, in a language not of his own?

“I expect that our mutual friend eviscerated them with his mighty pen, yes? His temper is a great beast.” He leaned forward, sleek and elegant and his shirt undone to expose golden tawny flesh at his throat. “But I do not wish to ponder poetry when I desire scripture. Do you read Latin, Reverend Tyrell?”

“Fluently.” Read, spoke, wrote. Loras always mocked him for translating Greek and Roman poetry for amusement sake, before learning of Catullus and becoming quite the student and re-enactor of obscene literature.

“For my sins, I am mostly a religious man. I find myself without priest, or church, alone in this foreign land. Yes, I am most pleased with the kindness of my host, but I am a lamb lost.”

Black eyes twinkled, and Willas, drowning in them, splashed a little and found himself unsure if Oberyn meant to mock him. Perhaps the prince existed within a bubble of permanent diversion, and this happened to be him being himself, but how could a person know without understanding the man? Confusion warred against a faintness of worry that always haunted him, from a young age. In everyday situations Reverend Tyrell dealt with his nerves with elan and panache, and none could ever think of an orator such as he sweating and sleepless because of having to give a sermon, or hold a wedding. Yet here, crumbling because of the beauty of the man before him, the perfection of a person who caused nothing but sinful thoughts in a mind that never considered such before, he was lost.

Kissing. Kissing seemed far more tempting that it ever had before. 

“I-” 

“Are you well?” True concern reflected upon the swarthy tanned face. “You are pale, Reverend.”

A glass half-filled with red wine pressed into his fingers, and Oberyn Martell crouched at his side. He wore clothes fashionably and close fitting in the style of his peers, lean at the waist, tight breeches accentuating thighs, but upon such a body the fabric took on a most obscene quality.

This. This was how the righteous fell; doomed by blushes and cold sweat and the muscle in the thigh of a beautiful man.

“I feel a little faint. M-my leg hurts,” he lied, deflecting the true cause of his giddiness. Not wishing to be ungrateful, he drained the wine in three long gulps, head falling back, eyes closing.

It was at that point, Willas panting and flushed about the cheeks with the closeness of the man, and Oberyn Martell upon his knees, that Lord Dondarrion entered the room with a tea tray and placed it pointedly upon the table.

 

* * *

 

“He wants to fuck you.” Bolton looked at him over the rim of the brandy glass. “He sees what you truly are, sodomite. Spaniards know these things.”

“Have you met many Spaniards, Ramsay?” They sat in a small chamber off the kitchen, a fire licking in the grate and the remains of bread and cheese upon a table between them both. On nights where they did not venture forth, for the moon shone wrong or the tides did not promise bounty, they sometimes partook of a meagre supper and some of the ill-gotten alcohol and spoke a little of sales of goods, or further ideas for collecting gold, or rumours of excise men in nearby towns. “I have met several and find them a charming race.”

“He will not fuck you.” He dampened a fingertip in the sweet French cognac, circled it about the rim of the glass to make the crystal sing. “I’ll have his cock if he tries.”

“I did not know you cared.” Beric allowed himself a small smile, watching the flames snap within the hearth.

“It is nothing about care, my lord. Merely that I do not wish to share you and your gold, and therefore what is mine, with some Spanish whore who would give you pox and bugger you to death. Do not flatter yourself, Beric,“ and he hated and loved how that Yorkshire tongue inflected so bitterly upon his name, “that I have any true care for you. You give me gold, and power, and prestige. You allow me what I deserve; blood and the chance to destroy my father one day. Nothing more. I own you, I know you. However much you protest your guilt, and dwell upon what you do with your own damned hands, I know that you enjoy every moment of your little revolution against the government and the system. Break from me, and I will have you destroyed in an instant. Do not press me. You are nothing without me.”

“You have me.”

In truth, that was correct; Beric knew that if he eschewed his estate manager now, with evidence of their crimes obvious, he would be tried and hanged within a month. More pressingly, he found his regard for Bolton more than appreciating someone who could help the end justify the means. Ah, yes - their association began as a tool, an aid to right the wrongs of society, but the man proved distressingly fascinating and terrifying in equal measure. Dangerous. Handsome, also. Far too handsome when one peered at him fully, when appreciated as a whole.

Eddard Stark always teased that Beric enjoyed danger far too much, that his addiction to peril could get him killed one day. And yet he still craved the pounding of his heart, the fever and passion, the craving for excitement that made him feel truly alive. Having almost died too many times to contemplate, he needed to feel alive, every moment he could, before finally succumbing to whatever plans God had for a man like himself.

Chaos and stimuli fed his soul, nourished his heart. What more chaotic and stimulating being could there be in England than Ramsay Bolton?

Damn him.

“I think he prefers the reverend to I, Ramsay.” He sipped lightly at the spirit, finally relaxed for the first time in far too long. 

Pale eyes sharpened, white teeth pressed a smirk. “He is prettier than you.”

“A far better man than I could ever be.”

“A most boring and inconsequential man, for all his pretty eyes.” Mr Bolton’s opinion of the temperament and personality of their vicar remained very low.

“Do you have a sweetheart?” He wondered quite often if Ramsay did have a lover. Surely a village girl or two would appreciate a man of means, holding a position of some repute, and with the education of a person of breeding? Some of the families knew of the smuggling and wrecking, involved themselves, understood how wealthy these could make a man. Bolton, despite his sneering expression, his viciousness of mein, cut a striking figure with his dark hair and silvery eyes, the leather coat, the self-possessed over-confidence of a man aware that he was above others. Perhaps he proved too rash and bold to the point of insanity sometimes, but the vitality blazed within him, lighting him red and bloody in turn.

“Of a sort.”

Dondarrion motioned for him to continue, ignoring a sickly envious knot tangling deep in his gut. “Yes?”

“An ugly red-haired bitch who is as damned as I am.” He drained his glass, stood, reached for his leather coat.

“I will have to meet this sweetheart one day, perhaps?” Just to see what sort of woman could tempt someone such as Ramsay to vicious fond insults. Perhaps she mirrored Bolton’s own personality; pernicious and addictive in turn?

Mr Bolton considered him, amusement razoring his mouth and the Devil about his eyes. “Perhaps you already have, my lord. Goodnight.”

Beric found himself alone, contemplating his own misfortune and appalling taste in gentlemen over the rest of the bottle and a slice or two of excellent custard tart.

 

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra long chapter for Easter, hence why this is early.

* * *

 

 

Tarth scrubbed at his face and contemplated smothering the gleefully snoring Major Lannister with a pillow. 

Lord Beric suggested, in his kind and confident manner, that such august personages as a fellow Devonian and a peer of the realm to be should not be forced to quarter at Lyme for the summer but must, he insisted, reside at Blackhaven. Tarth had his own thoughts upon the matter, which suggested that perhaps Lord Beric may be lonely in this large rattling draughty mansion, or that he craved company of a certain social standing. He seemed to be a personable man, the sort to collect companions, and already he referred to their little ragtag band of soldiers, Spaniards, and Yorkshiremen as a Brotherhood.

Lannister snorted, twisted, kicked at the blankets and sheets, promptly stole most of the bedding, and resumed his nasal cacophony.

Damn sharing a bed with the man. Damn Beric Dondarrion for insisting that they sleep at Blackhaven. Damn everything!

On campaign, yes, a certain closeness arose. As major and lieutenant, as master and second in command, they did bunk together often, albeit fully clad and quite often nowhere near a bed chamber. However, campaigns did not come equipped with copper baths, and servants willing to bring gallons of steaming water in which to wash. They did not bring comfortable beds, or provide nightshirts. Sometimes they did allow excellent wine, especially upon the Iberian peninsula, but not peaty whiskies or after dinner port and tobacco.

Lord Dondarrion, for all the closed off rooms in his house - hence why he and Lannister shared a chamber, a bed - provided lavishly for those he entertained. Tarth, knowing the area, had some inkling toward the expensive and rare sustenance being illegal, but many living by these wild coastlines benefitted from the smuggling. He himself would be a hypocrite if he eschewed now what had once been forced to indulge in, and he hated the thought of such an accusation. Silks from the east, and lace from Bruges, all bought by Selwyn Tarth to try and prettify his ugly daughter. Sugar, sweet and wonderful and rather less awful, packed in bales and come to Devon from the Caribbean colonies. Once, before Tarth was a soldier, when fashions were for richer fabrics and not muslin or calico, his father had him wear beautiful gowns for a reason. “One day, love,” he said in his inflected, warm voice, “this’ll all be yours and you shall need a husband to help you manage everything. You’re bloody sensible, but looking after an estate is a man’s job.”

Several suitors later, Selwyn shrugged his shoulders helplessly and admitted, privately, that his daughter was more a son. The gowns were given to local families, his father cut that once stragging long hair short and neat with his iron-flexing scissors, and the second Galladon rose from the ashes of the first Brienne.

The laws of the Isle of Tarth allowed women to inherit; an ancient and unrepealed statute that suited the sensible islanders. They bred strong and capable women and men, unafraid to dirty their hands, who looked upon mainlanders as somewhat different, and wild-headed. Hence Selwyn’s Tarthish pragmatism when his daughter demonstrated her desire to become something more than an heiress.

Lannister had taken the first bath, bidding Tarth to assist.

“One day, when the damned stump is healed proper, I’ll be far more able to-”

“You do not need to explain, ser.” 

“Why does everything need to have buttons, Tarth? Damned buttons! Can’t the army think of anything else that can be utilised by a uniform?”

“Many buttons display the crests of their regiments,” the lieutenant pointed out, trembling fingers picking at the myriad discs of shining horn and gilt. Each button slid from fine lawn. Each button displayed a little more pale skin, and chest, and belly. Down and down his hands travelled until the shirt could be drawn from Lannister’s body and he stood, in nothing but breeches and boots, glowing and handsome in the flickering firelight.

“I still think it is most foolish we have to wear red. Yes, yes, hides the bloodstains, but also makes us stand out like bloody beacons against anything that isn’t red. Have we ever fought anywhere that’s red? No. Everywhere is normal coloured, like sand, and earth, and trees. When the British army decide to battle in red clay then we may have a chance, but in the middle of Spain, or India, which are decidedly not red whatsoever? Really, which idiots do we have running us all nowadays? Ned Stark had the right idea. Dress everyone in dark green and black, and they all tend to escape skirmishes with their lives intact. Not that I dislike wearing red, for it is a very Lannister colour, but sense comes before fashion, does it not?”

Tarth knelt before him, a blush light on his cheeks, and tried not to stare straight ahead at the major’s clinging trousers.

There had been teasing, before. Before Ros, before Tarth had been proclaimed a god within the bedchamber. Lannister and his blond whore, some said, intimating at a closeness beyond professionalism and friendship. Hunt, especially; a most cruel and vicious tongued man who once tried to befriend the young lieutenant only to be rejected when his true lusts were discovered. After all, when a camp follower was unavailable, and a boy had a mouth like Tarth’s - all wide softly plush lips - and when said boy seemed so thoroughly innocent and corruptible? Well, bets placed over who would bugger the tall lad senseless first and the knowledge of such meant the major breaking Hunt’s nose and having him, as ringleader, sent in disgrace to another regiment.

“To be frank,” he’d drawled, as Tarth dressed his sore knuckles, “I’ve been wanting to punch that bastard in the face for years.”

And now, if the regiment saw them, how the teasing would rear up once more! If Jaime Lannister did not fuck women of loose morals, then who did he fuck? Perhaps he fucked the other who did not frequent brothels. Perhaps Tarth, despite his genius between a woman’s thighs, was a whore for handsome blond majors with sharp green eyes and sardonic smiles?

“Just the boots, Tarth. I’ll allow you your virgin sensibilities and remove the rest myself.”

Naked, uncaring, he padded from the intricacy of the oriental rug to climb carefully into the copper tub afore the fire. Shadows dipped along his spine, accentuating lean muscle, buttocks, the tendons in his calves and neck.

Respect always needed to be earned. When Tarth and Lannister first met, a green youth before a hardened career soldier, there had been none. Of course the reputation of the major preceded him, good and ill; Tarth saw a man of influence and name who became notorious over a most questionable death of one of the Targaryen warlords in the East. Jaime, much later, told the lieutenant that Tarth had been a foolishly naive and simplistic boy who wanted to be a knight in a world run by those with rifles and cynicism, and, thank God, only a little of that had been beaten out of him by reality.  Much later he revealed the truth behind Aerys’ death; Tarth the first he ever told of the true madness possessing the silver-haired despot, the hideous reason Targaryen had to die, and why Jaime Lannister destroyed his good name and honour to do as he did.

Respect. Respect for the man Jaime Lannister now was, not what he he had been when they first encountered each other. Tarth knew that his own influence upon the officer had brought succour to a wounded and tormented soul, and, in return, the major grew rather devoted to his loyal but callow lieutenant. They argued and sniped still, but a softness lessened the impact of words indicating the turning of enmity into friendship. Together they formed an impressive team, of strength together over personal weakness; where either fell down, the other could support.

Respect turned good looks to something more striking.

Tarth always understood that Lannister was the most handsome man he’d ever met. Golden hair, now shot with silver, that unfashionable but suiting beard. His very length of limb, his straightness of back, his face. Ah, his face, with that aristocratic nose, and strong jawline, and his gleaming emerald eyes that could gut a man with a look but shone with amusement and intelligence. More than that, his demeanour commanded, his expression brought into the lieutenant’s breast a realisation that he would honourably die for his superior.

Averting his eyes from what lay under the soap-bubbled water, Tarth scrubbed at that soft golden hair and pale tawny skin, desperately trying to ignore the tiny noises that Lannister made when fingers dug into sore muscle, stripping dirt from flesh.

It proved difficult. So very difficult.

Jaime Lannister, a fine man and a finer soldier, who respected Tarth and commanded respect in return, was very easy to desire. To love. To be at peace at dying for someone meant love, did it not? Perhaps not romantic, but love all the same, for a brother, a soldier, an equal of sorts outside of society and rank.

He that was Brian Tarth could never allow himself a romantic attachment. Not now. Not ever. Not when so much lay at stake. Even if his kind and honest heart yearned, perhaps, for the closeness of a partner, one who truly understood why a girl became a boy, such was beyond his scope. He would die without the touch of another, without that intimacy born of mutual love and respect. Sometimes, headily, Tarth wondered about admitting to Lannister that he did have a sister. Perhaps he would go and fetch her, die of some terribly disease and send her along with the news to the major. Together they would mourn the death of the heir to Tarth, and grow to love each other as man and wife. His honesty forbade such a charade, a silliness only to be found in Shakespeare or modern romantic novels.

“I think you can deal with the rest of your bath yourself,” he mumbled, pushing the soap into the major’s good hand and retreating to find towels.

“Shall I help you with your bathing?” Lannister called, voice soft and relaxed.

“I am fine, thank you ser.”

“I can, if you-?”

“No thank you.”

Sloshing indicated the major standing, and Tarth hurriedly wrapped him in the soft bleached linens provided by Lord Beric, then a warm gown.

“Are you going to bathe?”

Horror curled in his stomach.

“I am fine, th-”

“If you think you’re getting into our beautiful and clean bed without having a bath, Tarth, then you are sorely mistaken. You smell like an ox that’s decided to bathe in a cess pit.”

He tottered upon the precipice. Refuse, make Lannister wonder why on earth he would not do something as civilised as wash, cause an issue that could grow toward suspicion. The major was nothing if not perceptive, after all. A clever man, despite his atrocious penmanship - even before losing his hand - and terrible reading manner, especially with command, and people, and warfare.

Take a bath. Risk revealing everything.

Perhaps the room being so ill-lit, just by the firelight and a candle or two, could help? Turning from the man, Tarth inhaled, closed his eyes, and removed his shirt.

Nothing happened. No explosions, or gasps of horror, or Lannister roaring that Brian Tarth was an imposter and a charlatan and a woman. No swearing. Emboldened, standing carefully and not allowing an part of his chest or groin to be seen, he stripped off completely and clambered as quickly as any man of his height and build could into the water. With some maneuvering he was able to conceal any obvious evidence from plain view, shadows hiding the slight swell of breasts and the lack of anatomical correctness between his long thighs.

“No wonder I think you’re younger than you are, Tarth. I’ve never met a man as innocent or hairless as you.”

He froze, arms crossing and knees coming to his torso, as Lannister settled in a chair near the fire. Flames painted his hair tawny and copper, his cheeks bronze. Such a god there never existed, and yet there he sat, eyes heavy-lidded and half-closed, basking in the warmth and comfort that a soldier craved when away from home.

“Men of Tarth are like me, ser.”

“If I had a dozen of your boys, I could have slaughtered Napoleon years ago. Remind me to get recruiting on the isle. If you lack men, I’ll take your women. No doubt they are as capable and enormous as you are.”

Tarth grit his teeth and concentrated upon the firelight.

“A shame you do not have a sister. Are you sure you do not?” The man groaned with the pleasure of warmth and cleanliness, stretching out his long legs and basking before the hearth. “Some great tall marvellous girl, as strong and stubborn as you. Of course the unfortunate teeth may prove unsightly upon the face of a woman, and the general clumsiness of your form. Woe betide she be taller than I, and stronger, but if she had eyes as pleasing as yours, Tarth, then I expect I could overlook such obvious defects.”

Every word bit, dug deeper into flesh and heart, and the lieutenant stared into the flames until his eyes ached, the water grew unpleasantly tepid, and Lannister, thankfully, napped upon the chair. Why did such language cause such pain? It was not as if he and the major could ever be involved, given their station, their disparity in look, the need to conceal this precious secret that gave Brienne freedom. The regard they held did not include mutual appreciation of look for look’s sake; no, any regard they held built upon foundations of trust, and honour, and pride in soldiering, in serving the King. If Tarth considered his superior the most handsome man in England then that was that. A nothing. A trifle, he told himself.

The major slept, and Tarth clambered awkwardly from the bathtub, wrapping himself in towels to conceal torso and groin, before drying down briskly and dressing in freshly laundered clothing provided, as ever, by the kindness of Lord Dondarrion.

An hour passed. Silence threatened. Used to the bustle and hubbub of an army camp, or the creaking of wet wood, or the snapping of sheets and sails, being alone in a chamber with a sleeping man and a dying fire proved too quiet. Wrapping a warm blanket about his shoulders, Tarth padded to the window seat that overlooked the long driveway, tucked his legs up, watched the quietude of a landscape all at once familiar and yet utterly strange. Overhead the moon shone, pregnant and full; moonlight as thick as cream turned shadows to naught.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Lannister, voice rough with sleep, rested a calloused hand upon his shoulder.

“Smuggling weather. Bright moon, a dry night.”

“You and your smugglers, Tarth.” A pressure upon his other shoulder, from a wrist ending not in a hand but in a bandaged stump. “You’re a romantic, aren’t you? With your novels, and your knights.”

“Someone has to be.”

“I am glad it is you.” Sleep turned him softer, and soothed the strain of losing his hand, of losing his woman, of losing everything. How long would Lannister remain in the army?

Oh.

It struck, heavily weighted.

The army had little place for a handless man. Perhaps a quartermaster position, like those with eye patches and wooden legs sometimes occupied, but could a man as Jaime Lannister truly settle into a role where he sat and watched his regiment march away through dust and heat? Of course not. A man of action could never bear to remain behind. A man of action - Jaime would, oh he would, take a horse and a sword and ride into battle at the side of his men, crippled or not.

“Ser?”

“Yes?”

“What is going to happen?” To the regiment. To Lannister. To Tarth himself.

“Oh, the usual I suppose. You shall be promoted, and I shall be placed in some administrative role in England. Recruitment, perhaps. Yes, I’m sure they’d be bloody stupid enough to send a man who got his hand cut off by the Swiss to rally the troops and tempt the young and foolish.” Bitterness suited him in the strangest way, but turned his handsome face sharper, and older, and far more angry. For all his off handed charm, and amused demeanour, Lannister cultivated a cruel tongue and a sarcasm made worse by injury.

“I would go with you. If you wished. Wherever you went.”

“Damn it, Tarth. Damn you.” The fingers clenched almost painfully, convulsive, before the man stalked toward the bed, shrugging off the robe and tugging on his nightshirt. 

“What have I done now?” This helped, a little; seeing the flare of something in Lannister’s green eyes, the curl of his lip. Something of Jaime still remained, despite the pain and acerbity that showed only to Tarth. Their closeness was such that the major allowed himself to demonstrate his upset, his rage, his suffering when they found themselves alone, and Tarth both cherished and hated every moment.

“I do not wish to think upon the future. Let me have something, for God’s sake. Let me still be a fucking soldier for a while longer.”

Green eyes met blue.

“I am going to bed.”

And he did. Lannister threw himself upon the feather mattress, pulled the sheets to his ears, and lay as still as death until, finally, he began to relax into slumber.

Tarth came to bed when he was sure that the major would not notice, creeping into the welcome of clean sheets and soft pillows, but sleep proved a flitting creature that could be caught with neither mind nor net. He glared at the snoring mound of Lannister, turned to face away from the man, punched his pillow into a more pleasing shape, and attempted to, once more, sleep.

The major sighed, breath hot against the clipped nape of Tarth’s neck, murmured something, and then, without warning, a heavy arm ended up wrapping itself about the startled lieutenant.

 

* * *

 

“Is it all there?” Ramsay Bolton melted into darkness with every movement, as if he belonged to the night. Perhaps he did. Something black and chill as the grave shrouded him even in bright sunlight and warmth.

“Took a tun for myself,” the lad said. “As we agreed, ser.”

“Brandy?”

Matthos Seaworth grinned, easily. “Aye. Good drop, as well.”

The Seaworth family proved useful, as did their contacts; half of London once drank the illicit alcohol brought by the publican from France to the English coast, but when Judge Stannis Baratheon made an example of Davos, he turned to less profitable but more honest work. Despite the disparity of aristocrat and commoner, they became friends. More, Bolton said with that sadistic smile upon his face. No one favoured a criminal, a man who should have hanged for his crimes, without exacting some price.

Ramsay saw fornication in everything. He revelled in it. He saw the fire and brimstone of sin, and burned himself with his own perversion, and need, and violence.

A nod toward the waiting party, and, as well-oiled as any cotton machine, the men sprang to action. Ponies laboured upon paths so narrow that only the spryest of eyes could discern them. Long tunnels in the rock provided safe haven for goods that could not be taken up the cliffs to the village, to Blackhaven; so profitable this run proved that even the riches of Beric Dondarrion could not provide more hands with which to process the goods.

“Did you bring what I asked?”

Matthos looked up, under the customary tricorn and scarf, tipped his cap. Whatever he wore, however he wore it, those few truly involved with the smuggling ring knew the identity of their benefactor. Even men who took items to Blackhaven laboured under the misunderstanding that the goodly and pious Lord did not know of Bolton’s scheme. Taking advantage of a man’s honesty and generosity, they said, but they continued to abuse an apparent trust. One or two knew differently.

“Aye, ser.” He took a bundle wrapped in oilcloths from the shallow-keeled skiff, offered it, and Lord Dondarrion took the parcel in his arms.

“Thank you, Seaworth.”

“Thank you, ser,” he replied, accompanied by another doff of his cap, before disappearing into the cave mouth in which they stood.

“You never ask for anything.” Ramsay murmured, regarding him with those strange and icy eyes.

“A few gifts, that is all.” Why he felt he needed to explain himself to Ramsay, he did not know. The man brought out a strange and defensive manner, a nervousness born of disquietude and desire all twisted into something that sat in his belly, acid and thick.

“For whom?”

“The Starks. They need a friend-”

“Such a goodly man that you are, my lord. What do you want from them, I wonder? The gratitude of that comely son who you enjoy watching work without his coat on? The pretty girl, who if you wed would allow you to fuck whichever boy you wanted without suspicion? After all, a married man would never stoop so low as to suck the cock of a handsome boy, would he? What motivations do you truly have, my lord, to gift such a family?”

“Really, Ramsay? I do not wish anything of them, but they are now part of the village and are under my protection.” Bile rose. Yes, Robb had a handsome face and manner and sometimes idly Beric dwelled upon his form, and yes, marriage would throw those scenting blood and scandal from his door, but to have Bolton dirty what he wished to be a goodly act to a family in need who deserved charity for the extreme circumstance in which they found themselves?

“You must want something”

“Why do you always think that a person must desire something if they wish to do good?”

“You give gold to the church and the village to ease your guilt at these activities. Everything you do in your life is to assuage the wrongs we commit. Smuggling? A sovereign per week to the pretty vicar. A ship wrecked? Those who survive helped, given passage. Murder?” Ramsay’s expression tightened into something wanting and hungry, something terrible and beautiful. “Another village boy employed, another dowry paid, another child educated. Yet you do not cease, do you? Means to an end, my lord. With every death, with every sword through a gut, with every pistol shot to a forehead, your people thrive. The poor eat meat while the corpses rot in shallow graves. And yet,” and when Bolton’s voice turned silky and vicious, the ground dropped below his feet, “you have always killed, have you not? So many died by your hand, and so many still die. Part of you likes it, does it not, Beric?”

Familiarity made the speech worse. He shivered, palsied, desperately tried to ignore the small man who possessed mind so devious that he could twist a person’s thoughts with mere suggestion.

“No.” He hated it. He loathed having to do as he did, with every passing day and month and year, but how could he even extricate himself from this spiderweb of crime and murder? Bolton threatened to expose him. Too many relied on the illegality, and not just in eating and drinking well. Employment came from smuggling and wrecking, allowed his villagers to exist on more than charity and goodwill. How could he step back and watch everything he worked for crumble into the chalk and treacherous rock?

“Yes,” hissed Bolton. “You like death because it gives you what you want. Without the murders, would you feed your villages, heal the sick, clothe the naked? You wish to be God, and almighty in your benevolence, giving to those who need you. You are their God, my lord. You are what they worship because unlike their actual God you provide. They pay lip service to the pretty vicar and his invisible creation while falling upon their knees before the tangibility of you.”

His flesh prickled at the casual blasphemy, at the hand that found the small of his back and lingered, and, helpless, Lord Beric pressed into the touch, into the hypnotic voice, into Ramsay Bolton’s clever twisted words and strangely compulsive logic.

“I do not worship you,” the man said. His eyes burned white in the moonlight, in his pale and sneering face, an underlying emotion stark yet indecipherable. “I own you. Never forget that. Red haired whore that you are.”

Ramsay watched him, diamond hard expression glittering, drinking in that raging torrent of confusion and pleasure and horror, before taking his leave to assist with the goods.

As Lord Beric turned, shaking and overly warm, his brow damp and lips dry, the shout of ‘exciseman!’ rang across the cove, followed by the crack of a pistol as another man died to clothe the naked, feed the hungry, heal the sick, and to fight the endless fight for equality.

 

* * *

 

_ Dear Willas, _

_ I hope this missive finds you well. It has been such a whirl that I have been quite unable to write to you for so long, but now I am finally able to breathe, I am putting pen to paper to tell you what a madness the last months have been! _

 

Margaery always shone from her words, as pert and sparking in ink as in life. The solemn eyed reverend smoothed the letter flat and smiled to himself. So different was she to himself, so bright and vivacious and full of promise. Next to his brothers and sister Willas felt old, wrung out like a dripping cloth, as dusty as the tomes he loved and almost as dry. Garlan understood more, for he bridged the gap between the livelier Tyrell siblings and his eldest brother, yet he too enjoyed parties, and balls, and social whirl. It allowed his soldiers a little relaxation, and he enjoyed facilitating matches between his troops and well-bred girls of station and means. Margaery also proved talented in a similar direction, but given her high status as the most eligible daughter of the Tyrell family, she moved in more august and elegant circles than a soldier wintering with his brigade.

 

_ I am unsure if you will have been told, but I am married. I know! Margaery Tyrell is no longer, for I am Mrs Tyrion Lannister these days, and how I find it amusing to see the faces of those who are shocked at such a marriage. For while I am handsome, my husband is not. He is heir to the Lannister fortune given the circumstances surrounding his elder brother, so this makes him rather more handsome to me. _

 

Soreness clenched his heart. Margaery married, and Willas not invited to the ceremony? Of course he understood; Grandmother would not stand to have him there, disappointing and treacherous in her eyes and that of Society - she would not want the black sheep of the Tyrells embarrassing her with his presence before the great and the good of England. Besides, travelling to London, a long and arduous journey at best, cramped and pained within the confines of an uncomfortable post chase, would not have helped his delicate health. No, Margaery made the correct choice he told himself, even if a small voice within the very back of Willas’ mind pondered whether she even considered inviting him at all.

Nonsense, he told himself firmly. Margaery was his sister, and they were as close as circumstance could expect.

 

_ Despite his flaws, I enjoy Tyrion’s company. He is terribly clever, and sees that I am more than just a pretty girl with a love for dresses and dancing. Many think that he may become Prime Minister for he a Member of Parliament and very well regarded despite his unfortunate looks. He says that I must help him with a campaign, for with my charm and cleverness, and his knowledge and money, we could take over the entire world if we so wanted. I admit this is not the love match that I would have enjoyed, but I have always known I could not truly choose my future husband. To be respected as something more than a pretty decoration to flaunt makes my marriage rather more palatable than could have been foreseen. We are, happily, friends. _

_ I move in far more exciting circles now I am wed. I have been to Parliament and met many powerful gentlemen and their wives, which is only to be expected. I hold salons regularly, and invite those who would support my husband and myself. A power base grows, brother! For the first time I feel as if I can truly use my mind and my wit, rather than have to simper and flatter. Of course I still simper and flatter, but rather more politically than before! _

_ Oh, I must write before I forget! Mr Lannister and I have heard that his disgraced brother is to summer at Lyme, and since Tyrion still holds Jaime in high regard, he has said we shall travel to stay in Devon for a month. Parliament ceases to sit in half a week, and then we shall travel south. We expect to arrive at the house we have rented on the twenty fourth, and shall come to visit you the day after. _

_ Perhaps I should have remembered to write previously regarding this matter, but Tyrion has been so very busy with politics, and I have been so busy helping him, that my mind quite skipped over informing you. I am sure you shall be fine with us turning up, for you do live in such a quiet little corner of Devon and- _

 

He paused suddenly, scrabbled under sheets of paper upon the wide topped desk, brought out a calendar.

Thursday. Thursday the twenty fifth. Today.

Panic caught in his breast as Willas Tyrell realised, with mounting horror, that his dear sister and her husband were due at any moment into the village.

 

* * *

 

 

Of course they travelled in their own carriage, a smartly painted gold and red barouche-landau drawn by a pair of well matched and handsome bay geldings, and accompanied by a coachman clad in matching gaudy colours. As the carriage drew up upon the green the village roused, as if from slumber, to come and marvel at the sight of something so bright and glowing, a gem nestled upon the satin grass in this pale-rocky and unnoticed place.

He took a breath, and then another, placed a smile upon his face, and limped forth.

“Are you sure this is the correct place, darling?” he heard a man say from under the hood. “What a shithole.”

“Be pleasant, husband.” Her voice had changed; where once her vowels flickered Welsh Margaery sounded perfectly English. “We are not here for the village, but for my brother.”

“Are you sure we can’t drag him to civilisation? You say he’s clever - can I use him in my campaigning? Aren’t priests good at speeches? How appalling this place is. At least there is a pub, I suppose.”

Willas, cheeks burning, coughed politely, and the voices trailed off.

“God. Did he-?”

“Willas? Is that you?” The coachman gave a sympathetic look, released the door, and she peeked her head out, smiling and warm and utterly still so Margaery that his sore heart soared at the sight. “It is you! My dearest brother, how I have missed you!” 

Catching her hand, he helped her down the steps of the barouche and into a very Margaery-like hug. Even if she cultivated her perfect English wife voice, and dressed beyond fashionably smart, Willas remembered her still as the brightly clever little girl who ran about Gardd Uchel with dirt upon her nose and constantly demanded a pony.

“Oh Willas. It has been far too long. You look pale, brother, are you eating well enough? How fares your leg? Really, it has been-”

“Welcome to my home, Margie,” he interrupted softly, as if given a chance she would chatter on endlessly. 

“It’s very,” and she licked her lips as she took in the quietly disintegrating rectory, the mossy stones of the church and graveyard, the peering and curious eyes of the villagers who instantly sprang to gossiping about the very pretty woman who embraced the equally pretty vicar with such familiarity. “It’s very quaint,” she managed, fighting back admirably.

“Wife, you are far too courteous sometimes.”

Willas turned and blinked, aghast.

Mr Tyrion Lannister stood barely four and a half feet tall, bore a scar across his square-jawed face, and possessed mismatched eyes of green and black. Magnificently dressed in a dark blue coat and buff trousers, a tall hat upon his golden hair, he seemed larger than he truly was. A sparkle in his gaze and a curl of his mouth tending towards the mischievous turned him from an overly dressed figure of possible ridicule into something rather more interesting, in defiance of the first impression he gave Reverent Tyrell.

“Yes yes, I am a dwarf. A hideously wealthy and powerful one, as your sister very well knows.” Mr Lannister rolled his eyes at some expected comment, which never came.

Despite his shock, Willas remained, as always, a diplomat; Olenna had seen to that. He smothered his surprise, bowed politely and as much as his leg allowed, removed his own hat.

“It is an honour to meet the gentleman that my sister has wed, ser. A man who understands Margaery’s fine qualities is a person who I am very indebted to. She is a special woman who many tend to underestimate, and I am glad that she has a helpmeet in life that allows her to thrive.”

“Been gossiping about me, Margie?” Mr Lannister stepped down from the barouche-landau, looking up at Willas’ pale face with a certain calculation and no little curiosity. “A shame that someone with such enlightened views is hidden away in village in the arse end of Devon, really. Such a smooth tongue would be useful in London politics, Reverend Tyrell. Pretty speeches could win me half the country!”

“She told me all good things,” he assured. “I have never known Margaery to write so enthusiastically about anyone before, apart from-”

“Apart from you, obviously,” Mr Lannister interrupted with a grin.

“Oh, no. She berates me constantly. I thought more of our more sensible brother, Garlan.”

“Tish and pish, lad.” Even if Tyrion were younger than Willas, and he was quite sure that the small man was aged perhaps only eight and twenty, he seemed older, and experienced, and not so much wiser as more able to deal with the world. “All I hear from the damned woman is ‘Willas this’ and ‘Willas that.’ If my brother wasn’t holed up at some place called, what was it? Blackhurst? Something like that, with that invert Dondarrion, we’d have come and visited anyway - just to stop her prattling. Now your bloody Grandmother isn’t over us like a vulture, we’re free to do as we actually want. You’re a difficult act to follow, Mr Tyrell, when my dearest wife speaks of your truly angelic nature.”

Men were not supposed to speak of women in such a manner, with such arch amusement and mirth, but Margaery, smiling and fond, pressed a kiss to her little husband’s forehead. Never tall, she still towered over Mr Lannister.

Oddly, they suited very well. Perhaps not a love match, but something more tenable, and lasting. Indeed, the interaction between Margaery and Tyrion allowed Willas to relax a little; not all their attention focussed upon himself.

“Now, I need a drink. Something to eat. How’s that pub?”

 

* * *

 

“A pic-nic? How droll. Country types do adore their pic-nics.”

“Tyrion,” Margaery laughed. “You will one day own half of England. How you can say you do not come from the country I do not know.”

“The country is something that happens to other people. No, I am a man of the city. Give me coffee houses, and brothels, and the stinking masses of society. Give me a filthy river crammed with ships. Give me murder, and mayhem, and the ever-changing life of London, wife. The country bores me to absolute tears. Whatever happens in the country?”

“We have a Spanish prince in residence,” Willas replied quietly, sipping at his ale in his usual manner. He never quite liked the drink, preferring wine, but good Spanish reds and French whites proved too costly and difficult to find on his meagre salary. Lord Beric sometimes gifted him a bottle of something rare and wonderful, and always refused payment, and Willas, naive and trusting, never thought to ask where the drink originated.

The blush upon his cheek made Margaery place her fork upon her plate.

“Is he very dashing? You’ve gone quite red.”

“He’s a very interesting person-”

“Handsome and outrageously Spanish?” Swallowing a mouthful of one of those magnificent meat pies Mr Seaworth’s son made, Tyrion grinned. “Filthy sorts, the Spanish. It’s a wonder you got away from the Don with your body and heart intact. Be careful, my good brother. They’ll fuck anything, and good on them! What’s the name of the offender?”

The language should appall Margaery as it did Willas, sending him blushing and mumbling into his soup, but she laughed, delighted, at her husband’s coarseness

“Oberyn Martell, the younger brother of the ruling prince.”

“God. Oberyn? You’ve got Oberyn here? He’s the one with Jaime? Of course! Makes perfect sense. It’s a wonder he’s not seduced the entire village yet.” He turned to his wife. “Oberyn. Excellent sort, and I enjoy his company utterly, but an absolute whore when it comes to everyone. And he’s with Beric Dondarrion? They’ll have broken several bed frames by now.”

“Perhaps I shall have to watch?” Margaery said, sending her brother into a coughing fit and her husband pealing with laughter.

Blood galloped in Reverend Tyrell’s ears and he wiped his mouth with the napkin. However great Mr Lannister considerations to Margaery, and his keen understanding, the filth that came from his mouth shocked. However, perhaps living in London did do something to the soul; rent it in pieces and rebuilt it with a tougher mein, a sharper manner, a dirtiness from the city itself? Many he had met, in his past life, were similar. Loud, and confident, and assured of their places in the centre of the entire world. Perhaps this was what was required to succeed in the City? Perhaps this astringency of character protected one from being dragged into the abyss that threatened? After all, even with such language, and thought, and demonstrating this before a lady, Margaery said that Mr Lannister was a good and clever man, who allowed her the freedom to be herself. A good man, then, despite his roughness.

Perhaps sweet Margie, who Willas once carried about their ancestral home as a babe in arms, was now a girl of London?

“He seems very kind, and worried about my leg,” he ventured, face burning even more. Upon several nights since meeting Prince Oberyn Reverend Tyrell had awoken, sweaty and sticky and horribly embarrassed, from fevered dreams of Spanish sweet nothings and hands upon his own form. “A most accomplished gentleman, who knows scripture and poetry."

Mr Lannister’s expression sparkled, frightfully amused. “You are far too sweet, Willas. If I may call you Willas, as you are my brother now?”

“Of course, Mr Lannister.”

“Oh, please. Call me Tyrion. Mr Lannister is my father, and I wouldn’t wish to inflict him upon anyone.”

They finished dining in silence, though Margaery and Tyrion smirked often at each other, without the Reverend’s understanding, almost as if they truly were in tune with feeling and thought.

“So, a Spanish prince. What else?” Margaery prompted as she poured custard upon a slab of apple tart.

“We have awful shipwrecks recently, but Lord Beric is so generous with helping those in need. The village thrives because of his benevolence.” He noted an arch of Tyrion’s eyebrow, but chose to ignore it, mopping the rest of his soup with a piece of bread. “We have a family, the Starks, who have come to live at the village. They are from Winterfell, but are presently homeless as Mr Stark’s will disinherited the eldest boy accidentally. We are to have a pic-nic organised by Miss Stark, as I have mentioned, and I am sure that you would both be more than welcome. Major Lannister shall be attending, and his second in command, Lieutenant Tarth.”

“Tarth is a capital fellow. You will adore Tarth, Margie. A lover of romantic novels, a knight in shining armour who wishes to save us all. The Starks? I remember them, a little, for I met the sire once or twice. Far too honest and decent for my liking, and not even the promise of underlying falsity to take the shine away. The sort of man who’d stand in front of a bullet for you, and thank you for the privilege. I remember Cat being quite glorious, though motherly. I prefer my women far more maiden. Or, at least, looking like a maiden.” Winking. 

“You’re scaring my poor innocent brother, husband.” Margaery’s wicked hazel eyes shone with a devious amusement.

“He is also my brother, and you told me many times of teasing all of your siblings. I merely am showing my right to also tormenting my good brother.”

“Who else is coming to the pic-nic, Willas? Before Tyrion embarrasses you so greatly you die from it.”

He fought past the desire to run and hide in his study, surrounded by books and ink. Socialising pained him, even more, these days, as unused to it as he was. “An invitation was posited to young Mr Baratheon, since he is in the neighbourhood, but his gentleman advised that he is not allowe-”

“You invited Joff? Thank God Clegane said no. I do hope Clegane is coming, however. He fascinates me. Such terse Scotchness, with this underlying decency that he desperately tries to hide. His brother being a mass murderer and rapist doesn’t really matter as Clegane does not allow it to matter. He’s so vast everyone’s terrified that if they say something about Gregor Clegane then a Claymore shall be produced and skewering some mouthy fool before we can say Sassenach. I’m sure you’re all terrified of him.”

“Not as much as Mr Bolton,” Willas mumbled, before realising what he’d said and clapping his hands across his mouth.

“Bolton Senior, or Junior?” Seeing the Reverend’s blank look, Tyrion carried on. He seemed the sort of gentleman, which, given his position made sense, who knew everyone.  “Lean and bald, with the murderous look of a starving eagle, or short and dark haired with a vicious face?”

“The latter.”

“At least it is not the father. Roose is possibly the most dangerous man in England, and he knows it. Oh, if you were wondering how I know Joff? - he’s our nephew, my sweet sister’s son,” and the expression showed exactly what Mr Lannister thought of his sibling, and his irked dismemberment of his pudding with a spoon made doubly certain of his contempt. “The product of a drunken whoremonger and a drunken bitch could never turn out properly, could it? The other two children are darlings, and you must meet them. A steadying influence may be quite what they need, especially as they are nothing at all like the rest of us. ‘Cella and Tommen are far too innocent for us, and I’d like to keep that if I can. Remind me to ask Myrcella to stay for the season next year, Margie? She’s fourteen, so almost old enough to be released into society, but I’d rather do it earlier than later so we can be careful about who asks for her hand. When she’s sixteen then she will be fair game to any fortune hunter, but younger than that allows us some semblance of control.”

How kindly, Willas thought idly, that a man such as Tyrion Lannister - worldly, and proud of it - spoke of his niece. Maybe his personality truly was a crafted shell, to keep the man safe? After all, clever men were appreciated. Clever men who looked like Mr Lannister were mocked. Fashion some armour from words and expressions and intelligence and he might, however unlikely, truly thrive.

 

* * *

 

“He carried me all the way from the clifftops to home, without even faltering.” Sansa sipped her tea, wishing that the dull ache in her ankle would abate. The young village doctor, a soft-cheeked boy who seemed far too young to have a medical degree but acquitted himself admirably, diagnosed a strained joint that only rest and compresses could truly cure, but even a week later she still found the bruising and swelling too much to truly bear. Dr. Tarly had smiled, and flushed, and asked in his quiet voice if it would alright if he could examine her, and asked the housekeeper to remain as chaperone, and proved very correct in manner.

According to Arya, he was married with a little baby, and Sansa was most glad for him. Dr. Tarly, such a kind and shy sort, deserved a little happiness. Jon would like him very much, and perhaps the young man would write to her cousin? Perhaps she should knit something for the child in way of thanking him for coming to Honeysuckle Cottage so promptly?

“This is the tenth time this week you have told me about the strength of Mr Clegane.” Arya rolled her eyes. “Gendry says his face got burned in a fire.”

Gendry, apparently, knew everything there was to know about everyone, and if he didn’t, then Matthos definitely did.

“How awful.” Poor Mr. Clegane. Even if his manner ran towards roughness, and he was certainly no gentleman, to have such appalling injuries must be a burden to a person. Her breast ached for him, for this strong stoic man who showed her such strength and sense, who carried her as if she were a mere wisp of muslin.

Who she dreamed of thrice since that fateful day, and still Sansa could feel his fingertips upon her leg.

“Are you going to fall in love with him now?” Arya picked at her embroidery, made a face, set the neglected hoop upon the mantle.

“Arya!”

“You fall in love with everyone! Reverend Tyrell, who is boring, because he’s nice looking. Lord Dondarrion, probably, even if he’s ancient. Now the soldiers are coming to the village, I’m sure you’ll find one of them to your liking, too, as long as they’ve some tragic story or are fine in battle. You’re worse than any medieval story, I swear.”

“I just-” Want to be happy, she almost added, but Arya’s snorting laughter stopped Sansa from speaking. “Is it wrong to want to be in love?”

“No, but it’s wrong to be in love with an idea, rather than a reality of someone. I’d never fall in love with anyone that I did not know well, because what could they be hiding? Someone might be handsome, but could be a bastard-”

“Language, dear.”

“Gendry likes it when I swear. He says it makes me less of a great lady and more of a woman.”

“You speak of Gendry very much, Arya,” she added rather pointedly. “Perhaps you’re in love with him?”

Sansa meant it to sting - really, a Stark loving a mere nameless blacksmith? The very thought of it! However, as her sister’s expression grew stormy, grey eyes defensive and angry in turn, she wondered how it was that they always fought. Were sisters not supposed to be inseparable? It seemed every time she and Arya spoke alone, they squabbled like hens. It was not as if Sansa tried to upset her, but it seemed to happen more and more as they grew older. She understood little of Arya’s motivations, or why she wished to charge about the country with her skirts hitched and her nose grubby. Why did she not wish to wear lovely gowns? Play the piano, or draw, or dance well? Arya liked swords, and battle, and racing about like a boy. Nothing about her promised femininity. Sansa, polar opposite in most things apart from stubbornness and intelligence, could never fathom why they grew so differently when brought up in the same household.

“Maybe I am.” Arya crossed her arms across her chest, daring Sansa to say something.

“I was your age when I fell in love for the first time,” she volunteered, wanting so desperately to soften the divide between them.

“Who was it?”

“Jon.”

“He’s too short for you,” Arya replied sharply.

“I do not love him now, Arya.” Again, why did they fight even when Sansa tried so hard to be kind, and sisterly? “At least, not romantically. I wish I could have told him that I consider him my brother, though.”

“I told him that daily.”

“Why is everything we do a competition?” she wailed. 

“Because you never try and understand! You’re so like Mother, and nothing like Father! He’d like Gendry, because he’s good, and honest, and hard-working, and he makes me laugh, and he kisses beautifully-” Arya stopped, clamped her hand across her mouth, eyes enormous.

“Arya.” Despairing, Sansa rubbed her face. “Arya, you cannot go about kissing blacksmiths. Please? What would Mother say?”

Mother would not say anything, for she remained in her room and they saw very little of her. When she did emerge, she seemed as if she swam through a dream; pale-cheeked and her hair merely plaited, in a plain house dress and cap, and nothing at all like the handsome and well-dressed chatelaine of Winterfell that she once was.

“Mother cares for nothing but her own suffering.” The words dripped spite, but ached truthfully in Sansa’s breast. “You cannot be Mother, so stop trying to be. Mother is ill. Father is dead. These are facts. You cannot be my parent, any more than Robb can and he doesn’t even try. Just go back to being Sansa Stark, who all the boys in the county wished to wed, and leave me alone. I will never be like you. Never! Stop trying to make me as you’d have me, and allow me to be me!”

She left, glowering, shouted something about going to see her friends, and slammed from the house. A little plaster dust drifted as she crashed the front door shut, and Sansa pressed her face into her hands and tried, once more, as ever when Arya was as she always was, not to cry.

A quiet knock upon the parlour door eventually interrupted her self-solace, and she looked up, startled, at the housekeeper who hovered apologetically by her side.

“Yes, Beth?”

“There’s a gentleman to see you, Miss."

“Oh. Could you bring him in?”

“‘Course, Miss.”

Who would come and visit? Sansa cursed internally, apologised to her Mother for even thinking such words, and wished she wore a fresher and less crumpled gown to greet the visitor. Word of her fall had been spread amongst the village - the smallfolk adored gossip, and given Arya’s knowledge of the goings-on about the area, Devon people loved it even more than Yorkshiremen - and someone must be paying respects.

“She’s in here, ser,” Beth said, pushing the door and allowing the person to step over the threshold. “Will you be wanting some tea?”

“M’alright,” the person said, and her heart stuttered at the accent, the low rich burr.

Mr. Clegane?

“Shall I put the flowers in water, ser?”

“Let your mistress see them first, girl.”

“Oh. ‘Course ser.”

He stepped into the pleasant little chamber, made bright with throws and blankets, and immediately dominated the space with his vastness. Really, Sansa had never known a gentleman so tall; Mr Clegane, wearing his hat, almost brushed the whitewashed ceiling. The little sitting room seemed frippish and frilly about him, a female space surrounding such a male form that he looked very much out of place.

In one hand he clutched a small posy of flowers, all taken from fields and brightly cheery, wrapped in a dampened handkerchief.

“Mr. Clegane. Will you sit?”

He grunted, nodded, tossed the long tails of his coat out and sat upon the chair that they all still considered belonging to Father. “Brought you these.”

“That’s very kind of you, ser. Beth? Could you put them in a vase, please?” 

The housekeeper, eyeing the man suspiciously, snatched them from his large hand and fled.

Silence enveloped the room. Sansa smiled, winced as she adjusted herself upon the sofa, scrambled for something to say. With another, one more versed in social niceties, she could have chattered inconsequentially about the village, or neighbours. The weather. London, and society. Books, and philosophy, and perhaps a little politics that she knew. Other men were more easily read; with Lord Dondarrion she could speak of large households, and families they both knew. His soldiering days. Memories of Father, and the Rifles. With Reverend Tyrell? Oh, poetry! Poetry, and novels, and art, and all sorts of wonderful pastimes.

Mr Clegane, for all his solidity and masculinity, remained an unknown. Did he enjoy music? History? Did he partake in pleasing diversions such as dancing at the assembly rooms in Lyme or Weymouth? As the man of a gentleman, he must know London very well, possibly Bath? What could motivate a person such as Mr Clegane?

“My ankle does well, thank you. Dr. Tarly states that I must rest the limb, and will be right as rain soon.”

He nodded silently, his steely grey eyes never once leaving her face. His scars deepened with shadow, as if stone eroded by water. How me must have suffered. How brave must he be to have borne such agony?

“And the weather seems on the turn. Possibly the warmer air from the continent will bring summer, soon? Arya says she heard a swallow.”

Again nothing. He sat and stared, as quiet as death, and did not look away.

For anything to do Sansa picked up Arya’s neglected embroidery, tutted, unpicked some awfully sewn stitches. Even then she sensed him watching. Carefully, she glanced up at the man through her eyelashes and witnessed, with a strange jolt at her breast, Mr Clegane’s expression; tight and sharp, tempered by a strangely tender emotion about his eyes, focussed entirely on her.

Startled by her reaction and his intensity, Sansa looked up, cheeks flushed guiltily; for lack of something to do, she ended up moistening her lips with her tongue.

Something more flashed in those stormy eyes, something dark and wonderful that tugged at her ribs and thighs.

“I must be going,” Mr Clegane announced suddenly, clearing his throat and getting to his feet with a creak of wood. His usual surliness slipped back across his face; he did not look at her directly, but at a spot just over her shoulder. “Got to get back to Storm’s End.”

“You are staying at Judge Baratheon’s home?”

“Aye. My charge is his nephew.” 

“Will we have the honour of meeting the young gentleman?” she asked. She knew vaguely of Joffrey Baratheon, who her father once mooted as a match for Sansa, but they had never met. Father had been close friends with the young man’s father, but his death severed all connexion between the two families. The smart set of London did not venture so far north, and Winterfell had held Sansa and Arya as if they were two caged birds that would one day be set free.

“He’s not allowed to be ‘round nice society, Miss Stark. No honour to be done with it, either. I hope your ankle is feeling well, and regards to the rest of the family.” His voice rattled so gruffly that it seemed as if it were made of water filtered through rock.

And with that, the man strode from the room.

Sansa remembered to breathe, that strange heat burning her insides once more.

She grew up with tales of dashing golden-haired knights upon white steeds, who rescued princesses from dragons and wed them before King Arthur and the beautiful Guinevere. Mother sang romantic songs of maids and their lovers, often torn apart by circumstance; chivalry, and knighthood, and love, all wrapped in stories set in legend and myth. When she was but seven, she swore very solemnly that one day she would marry a knightly gentleman who embodied everything that she avidly read in her story books. The chaste safeness of courtly love touched her, and still did to a certain extent; her regard for Reverend Tyrell’s attractive face and pretty manner showed that. He embodied those kindly men who would kiss her upon the hand and never so much ask for anything more sordid in return. Sweet tempered, and gentlemanly, and handsome, and safe. So very very safe.

Then her father died and everything changed. Then Sansa, grown up too quickly in grief and her naivete shattered, and lost in her melancholy, discovered Byron, gothic literature, modern Romantic poetry. In his words, in his terrible beautiful words, so sensual and horrid and wonderful, she became a woman.

Her tastes changed as she cast off her childish wants. Golden hair became dark and flowing. Creamy pale skin changed to saturnine, dangerous. Tormented gentlemen, filled with unChristian wants and lusts set up in her mind, and she shivered in thrilled horror at passion and desire and hunger displayed in the rampant luxuriousness of the gothic. Novels she devoured by the dozen, poetry she learned by heart. Coleridge and Southey appealed but the voluptuousness of Byron outstripped them all; she harboured daydreams of  _ Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage _ , of darker and more volatile wants shown by men who were neither knightly or gentlemanly, possessing her.

No one knew, not even Arya. Especially not Arya.

Still she appreciated the kindly decency, and a beautiful face, yet in her mind, in her heart and chest?

Were Byronic heroes as Mr Clegane? They concealed dark tragedy behind taciturn natures yes, but he did not fully embody the handsomeness and enigmatic magnetism of those penned in the delicious poetry. He was merely a man, albeit tall and dark and fascinatingly made, who asked nothing of anyone and treated those about him with a withering display of contempt - even his own master! Mr Clegane demonstrated in one package everything surly and dangerous, overtly masculine and frightening, yet, in Sansa’s tender heart, she wondered if his misogyny was born from circumstance and pain rather than natural ill temper? How he had looked at her! For true Byronic heroes, mysterious and misunderstood, concealed hearts that burned with depth of feeling and affection for those who warranted their regard.

Could the woman who won such a heart tame such a beast?

Not herself. That would be laughable. A man without high blood and possessing no fortune, married to a Stark of Winterfell? Yet? Yet he carried her without fail, and he visited her without ceremony, and the power in his arms about her slender body lingered, as if the ghostly touches of a lover.

His eyes, as grey and powerful as northern granite. His Scotch accent like winter snow and icy water racing through tarns. The way he looked straight into her eyes, so bold, as if he were her equal.

Sansa shivered, laid down the embroidery, pulled her shawl about her shoulders.

“He's gone, Miss,” Beth announced, bringing in a tea tray. “He asked to send his regards to the mistress, and went away on that great horse of his.”

“Beth?”

“Aye, Miss?”

What do you think of Mr Clegane?” The question seemed desperately important, and Sansa did not know why.

The woman, barely older than Sansa, worried lightly at her lip. “He's born a gentleman, Miss, though I don't know the family, but the Scotch are different from us, aren't they? One of the Seaworth boys,” and here the housekeeper turned a little pink, “says his brother was a horrible bit of work. He says, Miss, his brother was The Mountain Who Rides.”

Sansa gasped, hand fluttering.

“Not that Mr Clegane is like his brother, Miss. Devan says he’s good if grumpy and fond of a drink. Kindly too, if sullen. Makes out he’s an ogre, but will help anyone who needs. Horrible language, Miss, and Devan thinks he used to soldier.”

“Is Devan your young gentleman?” she teased gently. Such opportunity rarely arose, to speak of such feminine amusements. Beth was the daughter of a Stark retainer, a good man who proved most loyal to Father, who came south to maintain the Cassel ties. She could be seen as a gentlewoman in her own right despite from the circumstances surrounding the loss of her family lands and title. Ladies did not inherit. With her father’s death Beth found herself as homeless as Sansa now did, and the Starks, always looking after one of their own, took her in.

“He’s a good boy, Miss. His father owns the inn on the harbour, and he’s got six fine brothers - most at sea. ‘Tis only Matthos and Devan who stay, for Matthos is to be a blacksmith and Devan shall inherit the inn when Mr Seaworth retires."

“Arya knows Matthos.” The Matthos who knew everything. According to her sister the Seaworths came from London with Judge Stannis Baratheon, but none knew in what capacity the men were acquainted. “She speaks of him and Gendry-”

“Oh, Miss. Gendry is a fine boy, too.” Beth leaned in, looked about, and Sansa patted the seat next to her. Her friend settled, and for a moment, oh, it seemed quite like the old days at Winterfell!

“Tell me of him?”

“He’s a tall handsome lad, with bright blue eyes and dark hair, and he’s very kind. Very handsome.” Beth smiled, eyes sparkling bright. “He’s not as tall as Mr. Clegane, but quite as broad in the shoulder. Many of the girls in the village are in love with him, but his parentage is such that he’s not a catch, Miss. Even if he will one day run the smith, and everyone knows that brings in coin even here. Gendry’s papa is Judge Stannis Baratheon’s brother, Matthos says, but his mother was nothing but a village girl and far beneath a man as wealthy and highborn as Mr Robert Baratheon, and he was born out of wedlock.”

Sansa frowned, considering. “He is a bastard, then?”

“Aye, Miss. A bastard, like many of the village. These lands are part of the ancestral lands of the Baratheons, that Lord Beric holds for them, hence why Judge Stannis keeps Storm’s End as his country home. Mr Robert Baratheon spent much of his youth here, and he was a very attractive gentleman, Miss, and charming, according to those who remember him.”

Bastards. Sansa knew she should be appalled, as her mother would, yet? Jon’s parents never married, and she loved him so very deeply even if she did not particularly show it. Caught between naturally wanting to love a cousin born out of wedlock and her mother’s rigid respectable manner, Sansa could never quite soothe the turbulence in her breast. To please Mother. To show her aunt’s son her regard, her filial devotion, as he was brought up as a brother and nothing less with the Stark children. Such difficulties for a girl who before they left for Devon had little in her head to trouble her.

“Arya considers Gendry to be a particular friend,” she sighed. “She will run off to see him.”

“You be careful with that, Miss.” Beth nodded, firmly. She was only a few years older than Sansa, but her circumstance made the gap seem far wider sometimes. “He’s handsome and she’s headstrong.”

 

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super long chapter is, well. Super long. Long awaited pic-nic chapter herein. Huzzah!

* * *

 

 

Such a wonderful afternoon for a pic-nic, yet a storm cloud without a silver lining hovered upon the horizon.

“Tonight, Ramsay? I am entertaining today, and-”

“Then do not get drunk and allow them to take advantage, my lord.” They huddled in a nook near the stable block, whispering fervently. Bolton smelled of hound, and tobacco, and that peculiar scent that encapsulated him utterly that sent Beric’s mind giddy. Quite often the urge arose to bury his nose into the nape of the man’s neck and inhale, close his eyes and merely breathe, but not for nothing did Lord Dondarrion fight with Ned Stark: he controlled his desire with his usual good temper.

”Will they not be suspicious at two ships running aground within a fortnight?”

“If they are,” and pale eyes glittered, hungrily, “we kill them like we have done before. The cargo is gold and silver, and we cannot afford to miss the bounty. This is a damned treacherous coast, is it not? The tides are high, and strong, and we have to take advantage. Do not tell me, my lord, that you are losing your stomach for blood and equality?”

“It is so soon,” he replied, glancing away, before a hand found his hair and tugged Beric’s face down to look into the pale visage of his estate manager. “It truly is, Ramsay. They will see something amiss.”

“You grow soft.”

“No. I feel that if we take such a risk then we will be undone. I have almost been hanged before, and it is not an experience I wish to repeat.”

“Fucking soft,” Bolton murmured, lips almost brushing Dondarrion’s ear and hand a vice grip in his bright locks. “Soft, and unworthy. Do you think I’d remain with something like that? Do you think I would have tied myself to a creature that does not take risk or bathe in danger? No. Easily manipulated you may be, but I thought you a warrior, a man of action who slaughtered Tigers and broke every excise law the King and Parliament ever created. Am I wrong?”

“God-” Bolton’s breath chilled and inflamed, gooseflesh scrimming across Beric’s skin. He found himself lost in cold pupils ringed with inky blue, wandering upon ice floes and through barren desolation.

“Does not listen, for all His Book, and His churches and His foolish worshippers. There are only us, and what we make upon this earth. We make our own path, in this Godless place. You, and I. Together. Bound by deed and circumstance. If you fail me now, I will take you down. You bleed prettily, Lord Beric, and sometimes I wonder if you would bleed even prettier if it were I that cut you open for your temerity. Scars suit you, and it would be a shame to lose that remaining eye. It is quite pleasing, but perhaps I should take it as an example to you of what happens when you do. Not. Listen.”

He shuddered, tried to pull back, but Ramsay refused to release him; indeed, he stepped so very close that they could embrace if desired, Lord Beric’s shoulders scraping cold and mossy stone as he tried to obtain a little space between them.

“If it makes you happy, my lord, we will have one last wreck for the summer and then we shall concentrate upon the smuggling for a month or two - await the autumnal storms, when folly and weather brings ships to us without too much of our own aid. Yes, we will do what I say, will we not? Because we both know, my lord,” and something flickered in the very depths of those cold eyes, murky and interesting, “that you always do as I say. I give you a little length of leash because it suits me to keep my bitch happy, but tug at the collar I have around your throat once more, and I will punish you for your transgressions like any good master of hounds should. You do not want to cross me, Beric. I have been most kind to you, I have indulged you and allowed you your little foibles, I have given you what you need, and yet you still fight me. I find myself quite...disappointed.”

“Your bitch.” Beric closed his eyes, drawing breath. “I am no such thing.” He attempted to pull away further, squaring his back, yet that leather-gloved hand tightened and kept the man hunched over the shorter figure. 

“Are you not? A fucking ugly red-headed bitch, and you belong to me.”

“Like your sweetheart does?” Despite the tingling pain at his scalp, he managed the faintest of smiles. How damaged must a man be to thrive upon such treatment, Beric reflected. The ends justified the means, yes, and Ramsay proved a stalwart ally in the acquisition of wealth even if his own desires focussed upon personal gain and destruction, but this strange obsession, and fixation upon Bolton, was nothing but his own whim and hunger for what, exactly? Challenge, perhaps, or seeking the attention of a man he found bewilderingly attractive because of his cruelty and the promise of danger? Ramsay lived without mercy, alive and vibrant and glowing, and just to grasp a piece of that in his hands - that something that was not dead and would not die.

A finger, square and strong, drew along the angle of Lord Beric’s jaw; skin upon skin sent his heart, confused and wanting and half-mad with it all, galloping.

“Yes, sweetheart. Just like that.”

“Bolton-?”

“Silence.”

Teeth grazed along the flesh of his throat, found his earlobe, bit sharply before that damned mouth sucked at the wound left by an over-pointed canine and sadistic pleasure. The pain was merciless and wonderful thing, trickling across his spine, his lips, and Beric, panting, tried not to whimper. He could not. If they were discovered then gaol and ignominy threatened, or a dead stableboy more likely, for Bolton would not allow his milch cow to be taken for any other reason than him requiring such.

He did not expect the hand in his hair to soften, for Bolton to come close and press his stocky body fully, lewdly, against Beric’s own tense form. Nothing separated them apart from fine cloth and leather, and every breath allowed him to further become knowledgeable of the compact figure, the lips at his neck, the fingers trailing half-kind and half-possessive.

Bolton, devastating strange eyes glittering, licked a stripe from Beric’s neatly tied cravat to the corner of his mouth.

“Who do you belong to, my lord? Who is your master?” 

The world span as a muscular thigh slid between his own, and Ramsay Bolton grinned against Lord Beric’s mouth.

“Tell me, sweetheart. Go on. Say it.”

“You. God, Bolton. You.”

The kiss proved frighteningly and shockingly chaste; a mere brush of surprisingly soft lips against his own, and that tenderness was, in truth, what truly broke the resolve of Lord Beric Dondarrion.

“Yours,” he gasped. “Yours, Ramsay. Anything.”

Mr Bolton smiled, as dangerous as a shark contemplating a particularly fat seal. Beautiful. Deadly. Lethal. Damned.

“Yes, my lord. All mine.”

 

* * *

 

“How do I look, my dear?”

“Ravishing, Margie, but you’d look ravishing in sackcloth and ashes - and that you know. How do I look? I have to compete with Jaime, which is impossible, but at least I know that my state of dress is far superior. He marches about in uniform constantly, and I have a tailor who dresses Beau Brummell. What I lack in height and handsomeness I shall make up for in being the brightest of peacocks in the whole of the menagerie.”

Willas had never seen anyone wear such a shade of crimson before, apart from Garlan in his fine military dress. Mr Lannister, his coat lined with gold silk and sporting a tall hat arranged rakishly upon his blond curls, cut a striking figure indeed; small he may be, but his personality and presence made him quite the Lannister lion.

He himself remained in his dark and sombre outfit, though, as the occasion warranted, he gave in to the allure of a silken cravat and his less comfortable but far smarter long boots. Even back at Gardd Uchaf Willas Tyrell eschewed the fashions of the Ton, to the gentle amusement of his mother, and the despair of the family matriarch.

“You look like the shade of a romantic poet gone to religion,” Tyrion commented. “Women should fling themselves at you in fevered lust, in love with those cheekbones.” The man’s piercing eyes and raised eyebrow turned the reverend’s face pink.

“Or lustful Spaniards.” Margaery tucked her arm into Willas’ own. “It would be very romantic, would it not? You, here in this tiny village, all alone until a handsome Spanish prince charmed you back into society - so like one of the books we love reading! I am very much looking forward to meeting Don Oberyn. He sounds both handsome and exciting.”

“Margie!”

“I would like being related to royalty. I could not win the heart of the Prince Regent, however much I tried, but if you-”

She giggled, squeezed his arm.

“Of course, if you spurn him, perhaps I could step in and cheer him up?”

Tyrion laughed, apparently at ease with his wife’s machinations. “You would, wouldn’t you? Even if I am the best lover that you’ve ever had.”

“Shae,” she said quite simply, a mischievous look upon her face.

“Whores have training, wife. I am merely a very talented amateur with a large,” and he paused, grinning, watching Willas become almost apoplectic, “heart and tender soul. How can I not love women, when there is such wonderful infinite variety?”

“We are beautiful, and utterly charming.”

“Devious,” Willas sighed.

“No wonder you have no wife when you find us such, brother.” She rested her cheek against his shoulder, and for a moment she was his Margaery once more. They took turns, before Reverend Tyrell left Gardd Uchel in disgrace, about the rose-tumbling trellised gardens; Margie wore blooms in her long hair then, and possessed far more innocence than she could ever be credited with. They’d whisper stories, and share secrets, and Willas, a loving and indulgent brother, fought his physical limitations in order for her to practice the dance steps her tutor taught. Then, aged fifteen and the most beautiful girl in the whole of Wales, Margaery balanced natural charm with an affinity for cleverness without knowing, as she did now, how a smile from her lips could enchant an entire room.

“I like women. I do. In many ways I find you the stronger of the sexes. You bear pain that many men could never deal with, and even the most clever of you is seen as nothing but a wife, or mother. I just have not known many girls, Margie. The ones that I do know excel in character, and I am honoured to have their friendship.”

“Spoken like a true diplomat.” Tyrion waddled at their sides, hands in his pockets. “I meant about you coming to London. That silver tongue and pretty face could gain me half again the votes I already own. You’d be a sensation, and I am half in mind to demand you accompany us back to Westminster - is there any way I can bribe you?”

He smiled, and shook his head. “No thank you, Tyrion. It is most kind of you to offer, but I am sure there are others who would be far more suited to the rigours of society than I.”

“Tish and pish! I have listened to you sermonise, and I’ve seen how the peasantry around here looks up at you. I’ve also seen how that glorious Miss Stark looks at you, but that’s neither here nor there-”

His sister and good brother had taken to attending Sunday sermons, causing quite the stir within the village. Half now came to admire Margaery’s fashionable gowns and bonnets, and to see, once more, how small Tyrion truly was.

“Oh, husband, you are foolish sometimes. She looks at Mr Clegane just as much, even if he is a scarred Scottish brute.” She shivered, wrapped her stole about her arms a little tighter. “If it was not for the scars then he would be quite striking with his height and size, but he looks like some creature that you’d find fighting in the dog pits in Battersea, one that has been mauled by other dogs yet still tears them to pieces.”

“Does that not intrigue you, wife?”

“Not as much as young Mr Stark does. Such a handsome man.”

“I shall have the sister, you have the brother, and we shall meet to compare performances?”

Husband and wife turned, as one, and cackled at the expression upon Willas’ scandalised face.

“He must not come to London, Tyrion. Poor darling Willas would be dead within a week. He’d be appalled and shocked to an early grave!”

Did they truly tease him? Unsure, Willas managed the smallest of smiles.

“You are so sweet, dearest brother.” Margaery went up on her toes, kissed his cheek with a fondness that made the reverend’s heart ache. “Please never change? I adore you, so very much.”

“You are awful to me. Both of you.”

“Because we love you, and because - oh, Willas. I have missed you too much.” A rustle of skirts, and then she was before him, earnest faced and her small hands grasping his. “Three long years I have not seen you, and now I am here with you I find it difficult to express my feelings. I fall back to London habits because it is what I know, and because I have trained myself out of our little Welsh pleasantries as Olenna bid me, and I do not mean to hurt, dearest. I want to make you smile, for you rarely do now, and then it is when you talk of the Spanish prince - I am quite jealous, for once I made you smile like that. If Grandmama had not sent you away-”

“I left, Margie, because I had to.” Gently, he folded her into an embrace, his cheek atop her curled hair.

“I thought I upset you, I thought that-”

“Never you, _cariad_.” The little sweet pet name made her dimples dance in her cheeks, and for that Willas held her tighter. “Garlan needed to take my place, and for that I had to go.”

“But why leave? Could you not have stayed? None of us understand, Willas. None of us really know what happened. One day you were Papa’s heir, and the next you disappeared to Devon to live upon a pittance while Grandmama said that you had made your choice to betray the family, and that is not like you, unless something awful meant that you needed to leave us?”

“Garlan has children. I do not.”

“You could, even if you did fall in love with Oberyn Martell?”

The solemn eyed vicar took his sister’s hand in his and led her to a quiet stone bench within the churchyard; Tyrion said something about looking at the gravestones, and, for that, Willas thanked him silently.

“Do you remember when I was hurt, Margie? You were very small then, so I understand if you do not.”

“I remember a little. Papa cried for days, and Mama prayed endlessly, and Grandmama brought a man from London, a horrible man who smelled very oddly, to try and make your leg better?”

She’d been six, and Willas twelve when he fell from the stallion his father encouraged him upon; no child should have ridden a beast as powerful, as strong and wilful, even a boy as talented with horseflesh as he had once been. The moment still stood in his memory more of a sensation than an event. Height, and then green grass tickling his cheek before the entire weight of the creature fell upon his thigh and hip, and then all-encompassing pain that turned the world white. Eight hundredweight of horse devastating the delicate fine bones of a slender youth: the trauma wrought upon skeleton and sinew proved life-changing and profound. Mace blamed himself, and Olenna blamed the man also, and Mother, far less emotional and frivolous than Papa, nursed him through the worst of it all. Qyburn, the doctor Margaery correctly remembered as truly awful - there had been some scandal, later, of him snatching corpses from graves to practice his twisted medicine upon as no living being could bear to be near him by then, and he had gone into the army to ply his ‘craft’ - recommended amputation with a glee that made Olenna banish the man from the house.

“I’ll never get the full use of my body back. I mean I am still a man, I just.” Words failed, and Willas, emotional because no one else knew, felt his eyes prickle discomfitingly. No. He could do this. Margaery deserved to know why, and in her clever way she suspected something, so the time seemed ripe for honesty - but how to explain to a young woman, his sister, the nature of his injury?”

“I cannot wed a wife, Margie, if I cannot give her children. Why should some woman be s-shackled to a cripple, an invalid who can’t even give her babies?” Salt filled his throat as he stared out to sea, his hand tight in Margaery’s pale gloved fingers. “I’m useless. I can’t be an heir without heirs. Best let Garlan learn the ropes, and his brood, rather than me go through a charade, pretending to everyone that I’m fine, and I’ll have a fine son, and lie. I can’t lie, Margie. Not to save face. I-I’m not a traitor. I just. Oh Lord. It was for the best, so the family thrives, so everyone can be happy. So some poor woman did not have to marry me and be endlessly saddened and frustrated because I could not fulfil my duty. They never think the man is the problem, do they? They throw awful accusations at wives without children, especially those who ache because they wish for nothing more than babies. I couldn’t bear to put someone in such a horrible, dreadful position.”

“Oh Willas.” She clutched at his palm, thumb rubbing over the back of his hand. “And you have never told anyone this?”

“No, never. How could I?”

She sniffed, pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, a fine lace-edged embroidered piece of lawn, dabbed lightly at her eyes.

“I’m sorry for upsetting you.”

“Don’t you dare, Willas. Don’t you even dare!” Fierceness and sorrow warred with obviously wishing to question him further about his condition; Margaery was, as ever, desperate to know everything about a situation, good or ill. “Can you, or are you unable?”

“Is this appropriate-?”

“I am a married woman,” she reminded him. “I want to know, so that if a person who can help can be found, I can direct him to you. Please, darling? You have spent so long alone that you must need someone to speak with, and I love you. I want to help, in any way.”

“I can perform, I think,” and his ears burned. How he could end up talking with his sister about such intimate issues as his in a graveyard Willas did not know, but like the rest of his life these things simply seemed to happen to him. “I am unsure if I am able to produce the...um.”

“Requisite fluids?”

“Yes.”

“Have you tried with another?” she asked, kindness in her eyes.

“N-no. I have always thought it best that I put out of my mind any idea of love, and concentrate upon what I know I am talented at. Books do not judge a person, even if that person is broken.”

“You are not broken. You are the sweetest, kindest man I know, and even if you were not my brother I would think that. Would you try with your Spaniard?”

Willas waited for the teasing, but instead Margaery genuinely smiled, all quirkiness and care.

“I do not know. I think him handsome, and clever, and he speaks beautifully. I have never met such a fine man, in all of my life, I suppose, and when I think of him,” and Willas, open like a floodgate, found he could not stop telling his sister these truths, “I wonder about kissing him. He makes me laugh, and few have been able to do that these past three years. There is a natural poise to the gentleman that I find most striking, and his eyes-”

“Are they very fine?”

“Exceedingly fine. I think him the most fascinating person I have ever met, Margie.”

“Then, sweet brother,” and she kissed his forehead most tenderly. “I look forward, very much, to meeting the prince.”

 

* * *

 

“Mmmph, don’t move. Warm.” Lannister tightened his arm about Tarth’s muscled abdomen, gave a heaving sigh that warmed the lieutenant’s furiously blushing neck. Having been awake since dawn, Tarth frantically wondered how to extract himself from Jaime’s insistent embrace, yet, treacherously, part of him welcomed the closeness of another being. Especially if that other being was Jaime.

Every morning for a week or more. Every damned morning! An arm around his torso, a stubbled jaw tucked into the space between face and neck, and that hardness prodding most unwelcome at his nervously clenching buttocks. Tarth took to attempting escape, tucking himself as close to the edge of the bed as possible, but when sleep finally claimed him he ended up ensnared in the octopus-like grip of Major Lannister. They would wake, strangely refreshed, as if sleeping in such a manner calmed the most insistent of inner demons, before Tarth came back to his usual defensive manner, berating himself for his utter foolishness.

“I want to get up,” he said, voice clipped and short, and Jaime merely grumbled. Their bodies pressed together, chest to shoulder, hip to hip, as if two spoons nestled in a silverware case.

The first morning, after the first night at Blackhaven, Lannister woke lazily, his hand wandering, before Tarth’s callous-fingered grip halted him, mercifully, before he could explore rather too intimately. The action seemed to startle the major from his half-sleep because he paused, wild-eyed and utterly beautiful, before carefully drawing himself back from Brienne’s prone form.

“I thought- Damnation. Apologies, Tarth. A warm body next to mine and I start molesting it.”

That bitterness in his expression flickered for a heartbeat, perhaps two, before Jaime smiled in that practiced slickly false way of his, pushed his blond hair from his forehead, and slumped back onto the array of pillows. “Sometimes I think of Cersei, Tarth, which is torture. For a moment I thought you her, and, well. My apologies once more.”

“I understand, ser.” Tarth did not, not truly.

“You’re far too damned good. Another would have punched me in the eye, yet you look upon me with understanding and do not mock. If Hunt could see us now, eh?” He smiled once more, a little more like the Jaime Tarth loved, and he did love because how could he not? Despite scandal, and maiming, and that acidity bred of suffering and self-protection, Lannister was a person easy to love; not just for his smile, but his manner and hard-won respect, and his strange sense of honour that, Jaime told him, was all down to the excellent influence of his lieutenant.

The next morning, and the next, and then all of the mornings after, when Jaime awoke, his hand remained chaste - as much as it could be, upon the stomach of a woman who did not displaying her sex but masking it with short hair and men’s clothing - and unmoving, though those sensitive long fingers calloused with the hilt of his sword twitched lightly. Almost a caress, perhaps. A gentleness from a man who killed. Soldiers were capable of tenderness, though few believed.

“You calm me,” he admitted lazily. They talked a little during these moments, where Tarth found himself caught between horror and longing. “Being with you, my lieutenant, is strangely relaxing - more so than being with her, which is odd considering I loved her very much. I find myself less caught in my own suffering and merely enjoying being alive. I could be dead, you know? Most are after amputation, though Qyburn proves useful, once more. Awful man though, isn’t he? I see him watching my other limbs with a most thoughtful expression, and he is eager to have me wear a carved hand. He says something about gold leaf.” A snort, and Brienne knew the exact expression of contempt upon Jaime’s handsome face. “Perhaps if I have a hand for regimental purposes I shall have it painted prettily, but give me an honest one of naked wood. Let us not _gild_ the issue, eh?”

His mouth smiled against Tarth’s bare shoulder, whiskers scratching lightly. Offers to help with shaving were rebuffed, for Lannister wished to see himself with a beard. Unfashionable, yes, and wilfully so, but he never needed any fine clothing or mod-ish traits to remain the most beautiful of men. Jaime could wear rags and shine more golden than the aristocrats of the Ton, or the Prince Regent himself.

“Your puns are appalling, ser.”

“You love my puns. They allow you to rage upon my very being.”

 _I love you,_ the lieutenant despaired. _I love you, love you, and I can never truly love you, for how can I tell you that I do?_

“Perhaps we shall find you a sweetheart at this pic-nic we are forced to attend? My brother’s wife knows many lovely young ladies, of splendid income, who would be thrilled to capture someone as ridiculously tall as you. Fine sons you would have upon them, Tarth.”

He sighed, bone deep, and Jaime’s hand pressed lightly against the rippling strength of Tarth’s belly.

“I will not marry, ser.”

“Of course you shall. Tarth needs an he-”

Tarth sat up, sheets clutched about that flat featureless chest, battling desolation that desperately fought to overwhelm. He’d never been one to weep, even before as Brienne. Stoic, Selwyn said with no lack of pride. A sort never driven to acts of frivolity or passion, but sensible, and sane, and utterly professional in a career that suited perfectly. Next to him Jaime frowned, and even that expression lay lovely upon his attractively-wrought face.

“I will not marry, Major Lannister. It is not-” Swallowing pushed back some of the salt in his throat. “It is not my nature to do so, ser. I am married to my career, and the army, and the King’s men.”

“Oh.” His eyes were the same emerald as the seas off the Isle of Tarth before a particularly fierce storm, as deep and dangerous; a person could drown in such eyes. “Of course. Of course, Tarth.”

“It would not do to inflict a life such as ours upon a lady.”

“Very much so. They would never understand.”

“No. They would never,” said the woman who understood more than most, more than the soldiers who were beneath her in rank, the sacrifice made.

“If I were a woman, I would marry you,” Jaime murmured before he coughed, pushed himself from the bed. He’d turned very faintly pink about his high cheekbones, feverish and glittering in turn, before he smiled thinly and returned to his usual sardonic humour. “I would be an appalling woman, however. Skirts? How do they deal with skirts? Dangerous things, are they not? Corsetry, also, seems such a heinous crime. Of course the results from the corsets are quite spectacular, yet have you ever removed one, Tarth? Of course not, for you are pure and virginal. I took my knife to Cersei’s lacings once, and she scolded me thoroughly, for I could not get the damned thing off her.”

“If I were a woman, would you marry me?” Despite the longing for this woman? His heart thrashed within his breast, voice managing to remain level, amused even.

Jaime looked up from contemplating the buttons upon his breeches.

“An ugly woman you would be, Tarth, but perhaps I would. Perhaps my ideal woman is indeed a man? If you met Cersei you would understand. She has a masculine countenance despite her beauty and elegance; strong-willed and ambitious. Ruthless, perhaps, and quite willing to use her charms to persuade others to fulfil her wishes, yet she also bloody terrified me.” He paused to swear softly at the fastenings, then at his stump, before continuing. “You are as alike as fire and ice, you and her. No, for you are neither fire or ice - perhaps a lioness and some sort of horse?”

Tarth half-laughed, leaving the sanctuary of bed to crouch at Jaime’s feet and assist the man with dressing. His fingers, large but deft, made little work of the buttons at the front of the smartly cut breeches, but the closeness sent him over-hot and giddy. Layers of cloth separated touch from that organ that pushed most insistent at his thighs and backside while Jaime slept, no doubt dreaming of the beautiful but scheming Cersei.

“Yes, a horse. Definitely. Some magnificent massive beast, the sort that drummers ride into battle. Soup-plate feet, and braver than the rest. A devil when roused in righteous anger, rearing up to crash those hooves upon the heads of the enemy, but caring of the one upon your back. No, Tarth, you’d not devour, or rip, or tear. You’re too loyal, and too honourable.”

The major’s hand rested lightly atop Tarth’s hair.

“Too good, obviously, for the likes of me.”

“I’d follow you to Hell and back, Jaime.”

Their eyes met, painfully, and the hand upon his head stroked back Tarth’s fine blond hair.

“Get up from there, lieutenant, before-”

A moment melted into two, into four, multiplied endlessly, and it was Brienne who sat back upon bare heels and broke the connexion.

 

* * *

 

Lord Dondarrion had outdone himself, but Sansa knew her feminine influence helped immensely.

Having never held a pic-nic for friends, he requested her advice most charmingly. Lord Beric arrived at Honeysuckle Cottage with his arms full of hothouse flowers, a basket of cake and sweet elderflower wine hooked about one elbow, and had asked her, in detail, about how one would run such an event.  He even wrote down, in a small notebook with a stub of pencil, what Sansa recommended as the most delicious pic-nic food and drink, and what apparatus would be involved, and all sorts of pertinent questions that she did not think a gentleman would consider.

“I was in the army, Miss Stark,” Lord Dondarrion explained as she told him thus. “I am, by nature, a man who enjoys planning. Without a plan of attack, we shall win no battle - even if the battle is merely a pic-nic. And, like a good soldier, I know who shall be the best as my second in command.”

The small party enjoyed the beauty of Blackhaven's parkland, settled upon blankets spread beneath the dappled shadow of an ancient yew tree. From where they sat the house looked most welcoming, the sea a bright blue band to the south and west, the birds sang and wheeled upon the summer breezes, and Sansa finally could enjoy the pretty muslin frock that she sewed the previous year. Winterfell may have been very far from London but Sansa, eager and thirsty for news of society and gowns, always begged Ned to bring her books of patterns and the loveliest of fabrics. She wrote lists, and he would take them to a dressmaker, who helped him shop for his exacting daughter, and.

 _Oh, Father._ He would have enjoyed this; being with an old friend, under the warm skies of Devon.

For a moment the entire landscape seemed misty, but Sansa blinked back the dampness and smiled at Lord Beric’s solicitous offering of a lemon cake. As hostess, she had accompanied him to supervise the servants setting up the delicious spread, and now they awaited the arrival of their guests.

Of course, in the town - in society - an unmarried young lady being accompanied by an equally unmarried gentleman would cause such a scandal that could not be believed. Marriages came of such clandestine meetings, and Mother would be appalled at Robb daring to leave Sansa with Lord Beric, but her brother promised her, with characteristic care, that she would be quite safe with the gentleman.

“He’s an honourable sort, sister. He’ll be as careful as an old gelding with you, and make sure you come to no harm.”

“He is not so very old,” she posited, but Robb, smiling, kissed her upon her forehead.

Why he did not think Lord Beric a threat Sansa did not know, but she could see the decency of the gentleman. All spoke of him with reverence, and warmth, and, in the case of the villagers Arya told her of, almost awe. Such were his kindnesses, and such was his generosity, that none starved, or died for want of medicine, or worried about old age. He gave himself fully to those under his protection, and that always spoke well of a man.

Once Sansa thought that wealth and beauty were the key to life’s happinesses. Once she was but a naive child. When Father died none of his rich friends flew to their aid; Mr Baratheon sent a letter of condolence to Mother but nothing more, the Lannisters did not care, and the less said about the Freys the better. Mr Baelish, according to Robb, even pressed his suit! Some of the Yorkshire families attempted to help, but Ned’s passing devastated more than Winterfell; the Manderleys, the Mormonts, even the Reeds were shaken to the very foundations by the loss of such a paragon. In their own ways they tried, of course, but ripping the heart from a community as close-knit and insular as that of Yorkshire meant their attempts were in vain. What did the ancient name of Stark and her own looks do to help with the situation? Nothing, apart from the offer of a cottage from a person who aided them out of the kindness of his heart - a gentleman who wanted nothing in return. Such, perhaps, was the closeness of soldiers: more a family than their own relatives.

“Miss Stark,” Lord Beric called from where he placed glass bottles of ginger beer in the chill of the stream to their left. “Revellers approach.”

She knew, of course, the major and lieutenant. Lannister - apparently estranged from his father, according to Mrs. Lannister - was certainly one of the most handsome men in England, even with his ill-advised beard growing in silver, and further cursed with that missing hand. He grinned and behaved adequately, and, unlike his brother, did not flirt. He bowed deep, and asked after her family, and talked very properly about the weather, but Sansa wondered, sometimes, if he were mocking her. His manner, so smooth and practiced, always had a lick of fire beneath, something sardonic and ill-spirited. Tarth, however, proved a soothing alternative. Sansa liked the lieutenant very much. He seemed wiser than his youth suggested, and a perfect gentleman.

Once she may have fallen quite in love with Major Lannister’s beauty, or Lieutenant Tarth’s honest-to-goodness decency, but her grown-up Byronesque desires swept toward craggy moor, and lowering peak, and dark hair falling about a saturnine face. Broad shoulders. Strong thighs clad in black. Yes, the sort of man who rode bold half-mad steeds that no one else could tame, who handled swords and pistols like a highwayman. A man who, haunted and tormented by his own devils, could be gentled like a wild tempered stallion. Tamed by the touch of a woman who, above all, would be his muse, his life, his heart - his everything.

Oh, Clegane!

Why did such a man obsess her so? She had never felt such fascination with one of the opposite sex but then, Sansa supposed, she had never met a man like him previously. All gentlemen paled when compared to such a figure.

The tiny posy of flowers he brought her sat upon her bedside table for a week before Sansa carefully pressed the blooms between the pages of her favourite book of poetry.

“Good afternoon, Miss Stark,” Lieutenant Tarth said, bowing before her.

“Good aft-Good Lord, it’s Tyrion!” Major Lannister gave the briefest of careless acknowledgements before he turned upon his smartly-clad heel and almost ran towards where Mr and Mrs Lannister, accompanied by Reverend Tyrell, picked their way across the grassy sward.

 

* * *

 

Mrs Lannister was, Sansa decided, simply fascinating. She was not classically beautiful, but her clothing, her elegance, and her cleverness made it seem as if she were the Helen of Troy of England. They had spoken a little after sermons - though Mrs Lannister’s time was taken up by her short husband and her solemn-eyed brother - so both ladies were acquainted, but talking with her - truly chattering and laughing and enjoying the company of another young woman of similar taste and breeding - was such a wonderful joy that Sansa could hardly bear it. Having had little contact with those experienced in society, she found Mrs Lannister utterly marvellous

“Your dress is darling, Miss Stark,” she proclaimed. “Such cunning tailoring, and the style suits you far more than I. I, unfortunately, require clever underpinning to appear so fashionable, but you are quite lovely. And they hide you away in Devonshire of all places? A beautiful bird in such a dour cage I have never seen, and yet you remain radiant!”

“Compared to Winterfell Devonshire is quite exciting.” Sansa smiled softly, and Mrs Lannister patted her companionably upon her arm. “Devonshire is not that removed from society, for we have the army and the navy, and honourable gentlemen such as Lord Beric, and we have been shown much kindness by everyone.”

“Where I once lived, before I was out in society, was very quiet. Beautiful, of course, and Grandmama did encourage arts and culture, but terribly boring. Especially when my brothers left! Garlan went away to the army, and is in the East being frightfully brave. Loras says he is learning at Cambridge, yet I think he prefers drinking and boys to lectures. Willas-” and here Mrs Lannister’s expression turned soft and tender, and very loving, “is here. You have, of course, the best of our family with you, Miss Stark. Ah, if only I could steal him away to London, but he refuses to leave you all. Perhaps he has fallen in love, and shall only remove himself if his sweetheart follows?”

Mrs Lannister inclined her head towards Reverend Tyrell, who sat upon a blanket he shared with the impossibly handsome Don Oberyn. They shared a bottle of wine, and seemed to be very close friends.

“I did not know your brother has a sweetheart, Mrs Lannister?” Gossip, the lifeblood of small villages and the isolated, thrilled in her veins. Sansa eagerly leaned nearer, the young ladies’ heads almost touching.

“Sweetling, you must call me Margaery. All my best friends do, and I am sure we shall be firm friends.” She tucked an errant curl behind Sansa’s ear, her smile bright and rosy though her eyes retained a clever sharpness. “And you must come to visit me in London, I insist. Tyrion and I are always thrilled to have guests, and someone like you shall cause such a stir that the city will shudder to the very foundations! The beautiful daughter of Winterfell, so tragic and lovely - we shall find you a Duke to wed if you desire? Or are you more of a taste toward the handsome soldier? Lord Beric is unwed, as is Lieutenant Tarth. Tyrion tells me that he shall inherit the Sapphire Isle, and that is indeed a wealthy prize. Despite his looks, of course. Poor boy. Or Jaime? Oh, you should marry Jaime, for you and I would be sisters. I have always wanted a sister!”

“You seem very eager for me to wed?” This truthfully seemed a little overwhelming, but the feminine chatter and the enjoyment of being with another lady of status overturned Sansa’s natural wariness. It was like being with Mother and her friends before Father’s death, with the feminine chatter of marriage, and death, and birth, wrapped instead in one prettily-clad Margaery Lannister package.

“You are so beautiful, dearest, and I can tell how sweet-tempered and delightful you are. You’d be a truly exceptional wife, and far more besides, I am sure. Prettiness is not all you are about.”

“Not as beautiful as you,” Sansa gushed, her heart floating in her chest at the complements. Never in her life had she been so complimented!

“Artifice.” Margaery winked. “A little powder and a decent corset helps. My smile is crooked, my teeth not quite straight, and I am aware that I am rather too short, but confidence and a touch of magicks can turn even a dour old maid into someone that glamours an entire season of gentlemen. Not that I am an old maid, of course,” she laughed, “and certainly not dour! I am perhaps two years older than you? Though I was not shut away in Yorkshire and then Devon, for my Grandmama always encouraged me to enter society. Your mysterious quality would have gentlemen flock to you, and hang upon your every word. You could choose whoever you liked, from anyone - even the Prince Regent himself, I am sure.”

“Are,” and Sansa wondered if she would sound truly naive, “are there many men like Byron in London?”

Margaery’s clever hazel eyes sparkled, before she kissed Sansa lightly upon her forehead. “A Byronesque hero? That is more my brother’s area, for he enjoys poetry far more than I, but there are all types of gentlemen in London. The choice is infinitely varied, especially if you are as handsome as you, Sansa! There would be men who would wed you despite your unfortunate circumstance, because of your beauty and name and breeding. What is money when someone as precious as you is available?”

“But what of love? Romance?” Dashing dark-haired heroes with vastly broad shoulders and a heart that would beat for her alone?

“Oh, you are such a sweet little thing, are you-?” Indulgence turned her words pointed.

“Wife?” Are you monopolising lovely Miss Stark? We are desperate to enjoy her company, yet you hoard her away.” Tyrion loomed, Margaery laughed, and Sansa was left feeling oddly foolish.

 

* * *

 

A lovely afternoon, particularly as everyone came together and enjoyed the excellent dishes that Lord Beric’s cook prepared. Tartlets shone with sweetened glaze, hams lay carved upon platters, and fresh bread filled the air with delicious warm scent. Tiny cakes, made sharp with lemon and laden with sugar and honey, pies, jellies and chutneys, chicken and salad, cold potatoes, and many other tasty morsels thrilled palates and sated hungers.

“For pudding,” Lord Beric said, bright-eyed and relaxed within the group, at ease with his fellows as he was with all, “there are strawberries. Great fat ones.”

“You English and your love of food,” Don Oberynl scoffed. He laid out upon a blanket, relaxing in the sun like an old tom-cat. “Never have I seen a race devour so greatly. Such appetites you have. It makes a man wonder of all your tastes.”

“Equal to you Spaniards and your love of wine,” Major Lannister replied. He rested chummily with Lieutenant Tarth, who seemed to prefer to listen rather than take part in conversation. The young man smiled, and added where he thought his word could be used, but allowed the major and the others to chatter amongst themselves.

Prince Oberyn smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling charmingly. “Ah, we are a race who adore many fine things - not just wine. Food. Horseflesh.” Here he paused, and that smile grew lustier. He truly was unashamedly unlike any gentleman that Sansa had ever met. “Lovers.”

No, such a man was truly unique in Sansa’s experience. He had the gorgeous dark looks of a Byronesque hero, yet possessed an archness and a knowing that seemed completely out of character with any who set her heart hammering, her breath catching in her breast. Yes, Don Martell possessed dark fiery eyes, and an attractive aquiline profile, and his accent and dress marked him as exotic. So, too, did his manner of speech, his slinking elegant grace, his other-ness, and yet? No star-crossed gentleman of Romantic Gothic could laugh so easily, flirt so completely, appear so louche.

He was, after all, no Mr. Clegane. Yes, perhaps Prince Oberyn could be considered far more handsome, and personable, and possessing an attractively compelling manner, but his eyes did not burn with suffering, he had no tragic scarring; he did not elicit in Sansa’s bosom a yearning to be picked up, placed across one massive Scotch shoulder, and borne away to be kissed under the crumbling arch within a medieval castle.

With Mr. Clegane Sansa felt safe, and protected, for she was sure that he would save her a thousand times from twisted ankles and tumbles without taking any sort of liberty unless she made quite obvious that she desired such attention. If Don Oberyn had found her sprawled most ungainly upon the green and white cliff tops he would have possibly asked for a kiss before assisting her, and he could never have carried her across the grass and chalk to Honeysuckle Cottage. He possessed a dancer’s grace, and not the vastness of a warrior.

Comparing them was as comparing a beautiful yet selfish cat to a battered and loyal hound.

Reverend Tyrell sat with Prince Oberyn, rather more quiet than usual. Often he would just stare into space, cheeks very pink, long artistic fingers clutched about a glass of rich red port wine. When he appeared too lost within himself Margaery giggled, poked him lightly with her shoe, and he’d come back, apologising and bashful, to listen to the cheerful conversation. How kind Don Oberyn was to lay a hand on his arm, as if to ascertain his health. He even shared a little of the food upon his plate, and, because of the poor reverend’s leg, fetched him dainties to nibble upon, and kept his glass filled.

“Are you well, ser?” she asked Willas when the Spaniard disappeared in search of another bottle of wine. “You seem a little distracted.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Stark.” His hazel eyes shone over-bright, as if either upon the verge of tears or bedevilled with some ague or too much of the port wine. “I stayed up too late writing a sermon last evening, and I think I am a little over-tired. It is very kind of you to ask my health. How are you, Miss Stark? Do you fare well? Is there anything that I can do for you, or your family, at all? How do they all keep?”

“We are fine, thank you, Reverend Tyrell.” If he were exhausted, it would not do to burden him with her own problems, even if, as a reverend, he was truly there to listen. Perhaps the rapid change of conversation topic was therefore welcome, and rather expertly done? “Summer does make life seem so much better, does it not?”

“I agree, Miss Stark. The dark days of winter behind us, and all of the beauty of summer to enjoy, but I do wish it lasted longer. As Shakespeare said,”summer’s lease hath all too short a date.””

“He also wrote, “shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”” Prince Oberyn settled back upon the blanket, a bottle clutched in his hand. “Ah, yes. “Thou art more lovely and more temperate.””

“That is such a beautiful sonnet,” Sansa breathed.

“The most beautiful,” Don Oberyn agreed, though he smiled instead at Reverend Tyrell.

 

* * *

 

Hoofbeats upon sun-dried grass and solid turf brought pause to all but Sansa’s heart. She remained, outwardly, her usual well-mannered and restrained self, but as the wild-maned black stallion ridden by the equally black-maned rider cantered across the parkland towards them, she found herself yearning to be swept up before him on the saddle and taken away to whatever dark and dismal fortress such a man must inhabit.

Mr. Clegane drew his mount to a champing standstill, vast hooves padding, tail swishing. He masterfully controlled the beast with one hand upon the reins as he removed his tall hat in greeting.

“Clegane, my dear fellow! Are you to join us, as I hoped?” Lord Beric sprang to his feet, went to pat the horse upon the neck, and narrowly dodged savage yellowing teeth catching at the unscarred side of his face.

“No. Other business.”

Sansa thought very unladylike words, and immediately hoped that Mother would not find out that she, too, could swear like Arya. Of course she never voiced such language, but Mother could always  sense the dark intent within her children’s minds. She seemed alert to any impropriety, even if it were thought and not uttered. Perhaps, however, the which of finding that her favourite daughter could even consider such vulgarity could shock her a little from the suffering of her mourning?

If that were the case, Catelyn Stark’s entire brood would lurk at the door to her bedchamber and say such things as to make a common sailor blush!

Thankfully Clegane’s rumbling tone startled her from a threatening melancholy. Indeed, his voice, deepest and darkest of peaty waters, surged through her like a waterfall careening over a cataract.

“A pity. Will you not stay for a moment, for a bite of food and a sip of drink?”

“I cannot. Baratheon’s here, and I’m attending the brat.” His abruptness caused a reaction in Lord Beric, Dondarrion's easy smile falling from his lips and a curious paleness settling across his usually healthy visage. “Came to inform you that he’s here. For your information.”

“Stannis?”

“Aye. Came down from London, arrived this morning.” Under him the stallion twitched, withers irritable and dark eye vicious.

“He does not usually come to Devon in the summer.”

“Said something about keeping his eye upon his nephew.”

Lord Dondarrion licked his lips, nodded slightly, stepped back half a yard.

“He expects trouble?”

Clegane nodded sharply, expression stone-crusted and impenetrable until? Until for the briefest moment his flinty gaze alighted upon Sansa.

Sensing her attention, his face twitched, just a little, and Clegane dragged his eyes back to Lord Beric. For a full three seconds he managed to pay attention to the tall man before him, and yet? Yet his gaze strayed once more toward Sansa, who had not stopped watching him, and there, then, they remained. Oh, but they moved about her, roaming over her face, her hair - lingering upon her hair - then down across her bosom and to her waist, before returning, almost helplessly, to look straight into her eyes. In that moment, when nothing in the world existed apart from them both, his hard grey gaze melted into something frightening and wonderful and directed, fully, at Sansa. Fire burned less than Mr Clegane in that instant. The sun seemed pale and insignificant at the heat blazing in his dark eyes.

Someone giggled. Possibly Margaery.

“Sandor?” Lord Beric frowned, aware that full attention was not being paid.

“What?” With that, the connexion that drew them inexorably together shattered, leaving Sansa quite bereft.

“I asked if Magistrate Baratheon had any plans?” His sandy red eyebrows rose.

“The usual. Don’t know when, or where, but it’s the usual.”

Again another of those silences, those strange pauses where Sansa was positive that they communicated by tiny expressions that she could not surmise.

“I see. Thank you, Mr Clegane, for informing me of his arrival. I hope that when he and I meet it will be...pleasant for both of us. I would hate to invoke his ire, for he is such a difficult gentleman to socialise with.”

“Make sure it is.” He placed his hat back upon his long untidy hair, turned his stallion with heels and an iron fist. “Never give the man who owns your lands reason to despise you, especially if it’s him. Especially a blasted magistrate. If anything were planned-”

“I shall do my best to avoid any unpleasantness. My thanks, ser, for this.”

Clegane nodded. However, before he cantered onward, returning to the east and Storm’s End, he paused, bowed slightly in the saddle. Muscle, thoroughly ungentleman-like, rippled at his thighs, under the close fit of his long black coat, and if Sansa was not mistaken, the unscarred side of his mouth almost curved into a small smile.

“Good afternoon, Miss Stark.”

And with that, with a glint of spurs and a snort from his great stallion, he was gone

And with that, Sansa fell quite in love.

* * *

 

 Observation, Mother always told Sansa, allowed a person to understand those about her, encouraged graciousness and pleasantness through understanding, and could be used, if necessary, as the greatest weapon in a lady's arsenal. Staying silent and watching proceedings awarded one the highest reputation of being an excellent listener, even if one was privately considering something completely different and actually only slightly paying attention. Hence she sat upon her blanket, with Margaery at her side, and allowed her friend to lead the conversation. This meant that, in her quietude, she could daydream of Mr Clegane.

Such pleasing memories needed to be considered at length, so she decided, in her cleverness, to have Margaery talk of London and their companions in order to mask her fancies. As long as she made the correct noises and added to the chatter when expected, no one ever suspected. Much of this talent came from listening to Arya prattle about swords and the army, or Bran when he attempted to explain his philosophers of ancient Greece and his scientific theories. The former bored her to tears, the latter rather overly intellectual for a clever girl who could never reach the frightening genius of her younger brother, but it behoved her to not antagonise Arya or discourage Bran.

“You did not tell me of Reverend Tyrell’s sweetheart,” she prompted after dining upon the promised bowl of sugared strawberries, swimming in fresh Devon cream, and wondering if Mr. Clegane would taste the sweetness upon her lips if they kissed. Sansa rarely ate so hungrily - plain and simple fare reigned at Honeysuckle Cottage through necessity - and, surrounded by treats and cakes and deliciousness, she found herself becoming quite piggish. Not that the others seemed to mind; an informal event such as a pic-nic allowed ladies and gentlemen to cast off a little of the rigidity of manner, encouraged relaxation.

The more food she ate, the less she was required to actually speak, after all. The less she spoke, the more Margaery entertained them all. The more Margaery spoke, the more Sansa sank into a reverie of Scotch accents and elopement.

“Do you need a parasol, Sansa?” Margaery tutted, fussing delicately. “You are so pale, and I am sure you are about to erupt in freckles.”

“Nothing at all wrong with freckles,” Mr. Lannister - “call me Tyrion, for Mr. Lannister is my father, and I am loathe to be compared to the old bastard” - announced, grinning broadly at Sansa. “Some of us like a girl who can ride, and walk, and enjoy the country air. A healthy hearty girl with a good appetite for life, that’s what many gentlemen wish for. Is that not right, Jaime?”

Major Lannister looked up from attempting to cut into a pork pie. He held the knife awkwardly in his left hand, not allowing Lieutenant Tart to intervene. Pride obviously ran very strong within his heart, and understandably so. “Are you banging on about girls again, brother? You have enough of them flocking about you for both of us.”

“And when are you going to settle down? Isn’t Father breathing about you, desperately wanting you to carry on his shining legacy? After all, Cersei produced Joffrey and therefore is obviously unfit to bear a true heir of Casterly Rock. I am banished from his sight, despite my excellent marriage. You, my fine brother, are our only hope. Tall golden-haired children will spill forth from your loins, or we are doomed, I say. Doomed!”

“I am not going to set-”

“Cersei?” interrupted Lieutenant Tarth, a curious expression upon his youthful face.

“I shall exp-”

“Our dearest sister.” Tyrion cut the major off once more, his expression turning loathing and devilish in turn. “Jaime’s twin, also. She is, how can I put this in the presence of the ladies, hmm? A drunk, to start with, though being married to Robert Baratheon is obviously difficult. Vicious? A harpy? She enjoys the company of a passel of blond youths who are dazzled by her handsomeness but never see the evil which lies under her skin. Her husband enjoys an army of pretty girls, and sires bastards upon them. They both drink. They both despite one another. Such a happy marriage. Politically brilliant, of course, but one should never put a boar and a lioness in a cage. They’ll slaughter one another, and more besides.”

“Cersei? Your sister?” In a tangle of long boyish limbs, his face white and red in turn, Lieutenant Tarth climbed to his feet.

“Tarth-” Major Lannister also arose; rather less easily as he had only one sound arm to propel himself upward, and a note of panic in his fine voice. He reached out with his maimed arm, as if to grasp Tarth’s shoulder, and caught nothing but the gentle breeze against the cloth-wrapped remnants of his wrist.

“I need some air.” Tarth managed a weak smile, ghostly upon his wide mouth. “I feel a little unwell. Apologies, ladies. Gentlemen. Apologies, ser. I think it is the heat - it is quite different in England than in Spain.”

“For God’s sake, Tarth, I shall come with-” 

“No, please. Please remain. I shall feel more like myself presently, and I just need some time alone.” Those wide blue eyes - far too pretty for a gentleman to possess, Sansa thought - remained fixed on Major Lannister before Tarth strode away, long legs bearing him off into the blessed coolness of the tree-dappled estate.

Major Lannister made a tiny noise, deep in his throat, before stepping back and slumping to the ground. His handsome face looked, for the first time since they had met, old. But then he was old, was he not? At least five-and-thirty, and more beside she wagered given the greyness at his temples, the lines about his mouth and eyes.

“Our sister. Even when she is not present she creates such chaos that we could scarce believe.” Filling a cup with cider, Mr. Lannister pressed it into his brother’s hand and, without ceremony, the major swallowed the entire tankard down in a series of long swallows.

“How strange,” Margaery added, helping herself to another slice of plum cake and holding forth once more; at least her voice broke an unpleasant silence, where no one quite knew what to say. “I thought that Selwyn Tarth’s boy died years ago, and that his daughter, Brienne, was his heir? I must obviously be sorely mistaken, but who is to know the families of these country sorts, especially those who do not care for society in general. We would never hear of any gossip unless stated; Baron Tarth must have had another child and did not bother to announce this, and we all still think that his girl child is heir even if she is not. Tarth is awfully isolated, after all, and the people very odd. Almost as bad as those from Pyke!” She laughed, a sparkling chiming bell.

“Obviously, wife, there is another explanation.” Tyrion’s green eyes glittered. “Appalled by the death of his heir, Selwyn Tarth made his daughter dress as a boy and continue in the career that he so chose.”

“Do not be silly, darling,” and Margaery kissed her small husband upon his cheek. “No God would make a woman so ugly, so unfortunately large and masculine. Anyway, women do not go to war. It would be utterly impossible for that to ever happen, and anyhow, Jaime would have noticed.”

Yet Jaime - Major Lannister - did not reply. He rested his back against the broad trunk of the yew and watched the retreating tall figure, clad in red, until Tarth was quite lost from sight.

 

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is all Willas/Oberyn and Brienne/Jaime, as if I'd written SanSan and the actual plot that's happening, it would have been...insanely long. So SanSan and PLOT next chapter, I promise.

* * *

 

 

Whatever beauty the ripe full moon displayed, something foreboding lurked within the darkness. A shadow, perhaps, that glowered and leered through leaded window panes and chilled flesh to the very marrow; Reverend Tyrell found himself goose-skinned and nervous, heart scudding like the silver-limned clouds in the inky sky above, and he asked, querulously, if it would be possible he could remain at Blackhaven for the evening. 

“Even though the moon is quite bright,” he said, a shiver in his voice that Lord Beric understood all too well. A kindly man, and a good Christian soul, he never once intimated that a true man should never fear.

And Willas Tyrell feared many things.

Disgracing his family. The laughter of people who mocked his naivete and lameness.

His own heart, even more so. In the daytime, surrounded by sunlight and other people, he maintained his usual air of capable kindness, as solemn-eyed and gentlemanly as a reverend could ever be. But come night, come darkness, come fevered dreams and longing and that familiar feeling of crippling anxiety that led to self-contained panic, Willas Tyrell found himself haunted by his regard.

Upon his shoulders the world settled, at his temple the hooves of a thousand racehorses pounded, in his chest the breath Willas yearned to catch refused to be netted.

“Of course you may stay, Reverend. I will have your usual chamber prepared. Indeed, I was going so suggest that you remain, for even Devonshire can be dangerous at night.” Lord Beric smiled, though he seemed as shadowed as the evening and lacking his usual cheer. Perhaps the drear of outside reflected within the man himself? “I must ask you to forgive me, however, for I will be unable to pass time with you after dinner. One of my horses sickens - a colic, Mr Bolton tells me - and I shall be needed.”

“Of course, ser. I understand.” Beric would not allow another to suffer and plod the endless miles a colicked horse required, and his strength meant the beast would not be allowed to roll and twist its aching guts. No, colic could so often be fatal, and of course the lord of the manor would take this matter into his own capable hands.

His friend rubbed at his battered face with barely trembling fingertips, managing another death’s head smile.

Willas suppressed a murmur of horror.

He absorbed the drawn expression and tiredness of his friend, and silently cursed himself for his lack of ruth.

Lord Beric sickened.

How he had not seen? Had Lord Oberyn turned his head to such an extent that he neglected the welfare of his lord? For Beric, part of his flock of worshippers, needed to be cared for in the manner that all God’s children demanded - how had Willas missed this?

The usually robust health of the fellow dimmed into sallow paleness under his smattering of scars and freckles, exhaustion painted black and purple below his eye sockets. Even Beric’s hair seemed less vibrant, threads of silver at his temples bringing a startling and awful realisation that sat heavy and unwelcome: Lord Dondarrion looked old. Old, ill and worn down, an expression of desperation sitting gargoyle-like upon that face that Reverend Tyrell, despite the nature and breadth of injury sustained, still considered one of the more attractive of his acquaintance.

“Beric,” he said, guilt lacing his veins. He laid his own quietly shaking hand upon the gentleman’s arm. “Are you quite well?”

A queer sort of light shimmered in the depth of Lord Dondarrion’s golden iris, half-pained and half-amused, before fingers rested upon Willas’ own. Before, even two months previous, such a caress would have inflamed him, and he would have returned to the vicarage with his head a jumbled mass of appalled longing. Once, Willas thought, he and Beric would have been quite well suited despite not knowing if the man desired the attention of another man. Their respect, honour, and desire to care for others in their own way complemented, and Lord Dondarrion possessed a fascinating attractiveness in both visage and build. To be swept into the arms of a man who could lift him as easily as a sack of grain, to be held safe and protected in a muscular embrace - once, embarrassed, Willas dreamed of such.

An idle fantasy, of course. Beric showed no inclination and Willas, not wishing to humiliate himself at best and be arrested at worst, told himself quite firmly that schoolboy crushes upon decent and godly men could not be tolerated in the life of a reverend approaching middle age.

No. Beric’s hand did not bring bring warmth to Willas’ cheeks. Now the dark eyes of another gentleman gleamed at him, softened with memory and a smirking smile, even as Dondarrion’s low voice replied. Not easily could he remove Oberyn from his mind. Nor, perhaps, did he wish to.

“After tonight I shall be well. These past few months have been trying. So much death, Reverend. So many we have buried, and lost, but,” and Lord Beric paused, lost in himself for a moment. “But we thrive, even so. My village remains happy, my estate fruitful, we have helped those who have needed us, but it has taken a toll that I have found weighs most heavily.”

How much of a strain it must be to keep the village and the people healthy in such a time as this? War took a tithe, even upon those who did not fight; grain for the King’s armies taken from the fields of Devonshire, or the straightest trunked trees for the ships made at the larger river mouths. Sweethearts and mothers, awaiting news of press-ganged men. Children without fathers. Poverty became endemic, and the men able to fight trickled from the villages surrounding Dawlish, Charlestown, a hundred other harbours, and those left bled as heavily as those taken to arms. Of course Lord Beric suffered. He bled dually - his life’s blood in India, and for his people at home.

“You feel the suffering of others, ser, especially those who are helpless. Your compassion drives you to being the most charitable and kind gentleman in England-” He laced his fingers lightly into Beric’s, squeezing, because comfort needed to be shown, and affection, and reverence.

“And yet, Willas, if you knew. If only you knew-” 

“If I knew what, Lord Beric?”

The man huffed through his nose, chest twitching in a tiny chuckle. “It would have been easier for me if it were you, and not Mr Bolton.” Beric raised their entwined hands, touched Willas’ flesh to the scarring upon his face with a sort of careful gentleness that could make a man ache for more caresses.

The good reverend merely blinked in utter confoundation but he did not pull away. Beric’s skin burned under his, a slickness of ruination and patches of reddish stubble that scratched lightly, freckles spattered across his cheek like cinnamon upon bread at Yuletide. Willas had never been so close to another before. Not even Byron, and he had been overly-affectionate and flirtatious with all his friends. Not even Oberyn. Not yet.

He felt nothing but pity, and love, and the desire to remove the anguish, take it away, cast it into the wild Devonian seas.

“But I am a sinner, and my sins sent me the devil-”

“Are you drunk?” Beric’s turn of phrase felt uncomfortably confessional, more suited to the church than Blackhaven. 

For that could be the answer, could it not? Willas struggled for understanding, for some obvious reason. This heavy leaden introspection, unlike the man’s usual demeanour, must be from wine? His friend had imbibed more than usual at supper, that must be the truth.

Yet? The caresses, the way Beric watched him with curious intensity - almost that of a condemned man desiring his last supper - that tension wracking his tall frame to curl about himself. Muscles stood proud along the solid lines of his biceps, clad only in linen, over-solid, over-strained. He was beautiful in his melancholy, as beautiful as he once was, before war and time took their payment.

“Perhaps a little.”

In the years that he and Lord Beric had known each other - in the years that Willas had been rescued from penury and ignominy and given a living by a gentleman who did not question why he had left the loving embrace of his family - he had never witnessed the other intoxicated. Perhaps why the admission startled him so; Beric Dondarrion had never taken solace in alcohol before, at least in Willas’ company, so what drove him to this extreme? Even so, the amber gaze seemed more pensive, fatalistic, than drugged, and he did not raise his voice as Father did when in his cups. But then Mace Tyrell was always a cheerful drunk, affectionate and over-emotional in turn. Loras turned to flirtation and speaking of Renly Baratheon in a manner that showed exactly where his affections lay. George - well, having been the centre of Byron’s attention more than once, and serenaded with both wonderful poetry and a very ill singing voice - possessed the charm of the devil. Others he knew reacted differently: violence through to sobbing admissions of camaraderie forever. Willas himself merely drifted into smiles and relaxation, pink cheeked, and always found himself quite unable to stop himself speaking absolute rot on a wide manner of subjects.

However, if one thought more deeply, one glass more of the good Spanish red would not bring a man as tall and broad as Beric to such depths. As much as the wine tended towards the strong, the excuse felt hollow and ill-considered, and Willas found himself, shockingly, for he truly could be naive, not believing the words of a person he considered his closest friend in the world.

Beric could not lie. Or, at least, he could not lie to a person who knew him so very well.

“I am worried for you,” he admitted. Cold crept about him, chilling to the very marrow. “You are not yourself, and if there is anything I can do to aid you, please tell me, and I shall do it. No matter what you request, for you are my friend, Beric, before even being your reverend, and-”

“Remain with Oberyn.” An order, in a military voice that Willas rarely heard: an order that Beric expected to be obeyed.

Their hands finally parted, fingertips reaching to trace the length of Willas’ arm from shoulder to coat cuff, and this felt, painfully, like an  _ adieu _ . “Do not leave the manor, for any reason.”

“And now you worry me further!”

“After tonight, I promise I shall be well.”

He managed a faint smile, attempting to believe those words, but he found he could not. Not even Willas Tyrell, with all his good faith in a man that he admired, took those words as truth.

“After tonight,” Beric continued, a mantra that sat uncomfortably upon his mouth, “all will be well.”

 

* * *

 

“Oberyn?”

The prince could not be found closeted in his suite of rooms, or in the lavish main parlour, or even the elegant sitting room where Lord Beric often took his guests to converse and socialise after dining. Willas finally discovered him sequestered in the second library, off the Long Gallery in the older part of Blackhaven; this, like the Spaniard’s own rooms, had been constructed at the time of Good Queen Bess and reflected the love for oaken panels, timbers, stone fireplaces ornately carved with fantastical beasts. Here the ceiling beams could brush the hair of the tallest gentlemen, and what little light the diamond-glassed windows allowed in showed dusty motes drifting upon an unseen draught. While rather less handsome than the chambers on the lower floor - the public rooms, he supposed, including that larger and well-appointed main library which housed the larger number of ancient tomes that looked as if they had not been touched since the house was originally constructed - they retained a charming cosiness that suited Willas rather more. Here reminded him of Cambridge, and the colleges; nooks and crannies, and staircases that seemed ever shifting, dust and the smell of ink, books, and history.

Don Oberyn looked up from the book he held in his hand. He lounged within a padded armchair, one leg carelessly thrown over the arm, firelight making his sherry-dark eyes sparkle.

He truly was the most handsome man that Willas had ever seen, and his heart, battered and sore with emotion, cried out once more.

“Ah, sweet boy. Come and sit before the fire - it is a strange night tonight, yes? A fel mist upon the air would seem more fitting than mere starlight.”

With a gracefulness that any lady would be envious of, Oberyn stood, offered his chair, but as Willas approached him hands found his shoulders, bringing him up short.

“What is the matter?” Concern painted that glorious face.

“Oh, nothing. I do not think there is anything the matter,” he offered, but a sharpening of his friend’s expression showed that the prince did not believe him.

“I know your face, dearest one, and you wear an expression of sadness despite attempting to mask it. You fret, your are tense beneath my touch. You are troubled, Willas Tyrell, and I would have you talk your troubles out rather than allow them to fester. Sharing a problem can help, can it not?”

How could he not do as Oberyn requested? The closeness of the man, the scent of rich wine, tobacco, well-oiled leather, that spiced musk that clung to his clothing; how could a mere mortal like Willas smile politely and assure that nothing perturbed him and everything was fine, thank you very much? Even the weight of hands upon his body reduced him to a quivering and jelly-like amorphous mass of longing, and love, and however he tried to fight his regard, Willas found every moment more and more achingly difficult. Every breath, every beat of his heart, every moment existing in the same world as Oberyn drove him towards a wonderful madness that could consume. The other exuded strength and power, as flexible and unbreakable as Toledo steel; Oberyn was naught but a fascinating dangerous honed edge of a deadly weapon sheathed in velvet and kid leather.

“I think Beric is unwell,” he managed as he regained the use of his tongue. “He is very strange, and I merely hope he is drunk, and I am worried for him. I worry that he exerts himself too greatly in looking after us, and that his goodness will cause him to become ill. He says all will be well, but I find it difficult to believe him.”

Oberyn watched him, silent. He did not look away, just stared with a curious intensity, then he quietly slid his arms about Willas, drawing him into a careful embrace. They were of a height that they almost matched in where they touched; chest, hip, thigh, all twinned by that of the other. Nothing more than an embrace, and Willas could not help rest his cheek on the broad smoothness of the prince’s coat-clad shoulder, nose tucked against the man’s stubbled throat, and never, before, in all the years he existed, had he felt so safe, or warm, or comforted.

“You are, without doubt,” Oberyn murmured, voice soft and silky and so gentle, “the most delightful man I have met. Such good you see in all. Even in battered old soldiers who have secrets so vast they can barely be contained.”

“Pardon?” The ice that took his bones when bidding Beric goodbye, that Oberyn’s presence melted, once more froze his body.

“It is time you learned the truth, for I cannot bear you suffering.” Lips found Willas’ forehead, lingering. “I apologise for what I am about to tell you, for it will be shocking to one such as yourself. This charade, however, has continued for too long, and I will not have you break your heart any longer - it is not fair to abuse your good nature in such a manner, and if he does return, I will have words with our supposedly saintly Lord Dondarrion.”

“Beric Dondarrion is a good man, yes, and a fine one. He wishes for those who have nothing to be given something, and he is generous to his people. He despises the unfairness of poverty, when he can do something to help.” The arms about Willas’ waist tightened fractionally, and Oberyn’s voice, as honied and lovely as himself, became steel upon stone.

“And so he does - for he thinks the ends justify the means in which he gains his fortune - by taking wealth from those who will not miss such. Gold here from a merchantman. Silks and rum from a noble house. Ah, Willas. A man cannot be saintly, for even you have flaws, beautiful and rare a creature as you are. Beric Dondarrion is a good man, but he does terrible deeds.”

“I-”

“Sit. I will fetch wine.”

Oberyn encouraged him to sit, and Willas, mute, did as he was bidden. If he had not slumped into the comfortable chair, he would have collapsed.

“I don’t understand,” he said, after he finished the glass poured from the crystal decanter, a bewildered tone turning his voice almost childish. “I don’t understand what you are telling me.”

He did. He understood with a clarity that set about him like a shroud, but he needed the other to put a voice to his fears.

Too long had ships dashed themselves upon the shore. Too long had funerals taken place. Willas thought the coastline treacherous, and yes, to an extent that was correct, but all those ships, and all those dead, and all that salvage? No shore could be that unforgiving.

Martell knelt at his side, long fingers splayed upon Willas’ thigh. The touch, instead of inflaming, now anchored, brought him back.

“Please tell me?” He must know. Now the sluice gate of truth opened, he needed to know everything.

“Smuggling and wrecking. I have had occasion to witness the return of Lord Dondarrion, and that vicious little attack dog he allows lead him about, after successful missions. They have not seen me,” Oberyn added, mouth twisting into a sensual sneer. “The shipwrecks, with the weather being so kind. Suspicions raised, I asked Beric, and he admitted freely. He does not wear the deeds lightly. They are chains about his neck, dragging him down and down. Bolton makes this worse. He is the true power in Blackhaven, not our friend. If he were not here, I think perhaps that Lord Beric would suffer less, but the fool - he is a fool, after all, damnable idiot - is more than a little in love with him. I have thought,” he continued, “of removing Bolton myself. I am, after all, a man of great knowledge. A little poison, perhaps, or a knife slipped through the ribs, and Lord Beric may be freed of his malign influences. Ah, I am but a prisoner, despite the gilded cage. Such opportunity would not be easily found.”

“Oh God.” Oberyn’s last words slipped by unheeded, consumed by the vastness of the deeds of Lord Beric Dondarrion.

No wonder Beric suffered. His conscience, all at once raised so high yet blackened beyond all recognition, in danger of being torn apart by deed and influence, must torture him so. But all he did, all that smuggling and wrecking encouraged, went against everything Willas believed; scripture, the Church, his own morality. Could a man love the sinner and loathe the sin? Could such sins ever be forgiven, by man and by God? So many corpses floating upon the waves. So many burials at the tiny churchyard and Willas ached for each and every unknown he gave to consecrated ground.

He could not hold his tongue, for such questions were too large for him to keep within.

“I had no idea. And I asked him to donate, and he has been so kind giving gold to the church and the village, and we all love - loved - him for his generosity of nature and spirit, and yet he felt he needed to do such awful things? Poor Lord Beric. What in his life has shaped him into this? How can we help him?” His long fingers clenched painfully in his lap, nail digging into the delicate skin of his palms until Oberyn’s hands caught in his and twined their fingers together. Willas barely noticed in his grief.

“He is my friend, and I love him dearly, for he has always been so good to me and others, but - was this because he felt he needed to be, because his conscience tortured him into kindness? Does he even like me? Oh, that sounds so selfish, I cannot help it however, but what, if he has lied to us all so greatly, can we ever believe? Is his kindness him paying a penance for what he does?”

“I think if it were not for the bastard who rules him, he would be as fond of you as I am. He regards you in the highest of esteem, and would never have wished to make a fool of you.”

A snippet of earlier conversation trailed across Willas’ mind, lightning over a midnight sky of storms.

“He said something, perhaps, a little akin to that. He said it would have been easier if it were me, and not Bolton. I did not understand, until you said-” He stared sightlessly into the fire, heat burning his cheeks as the meaning became clear. If he and Lord Beric were close, as close as two men could be, then perhaps none of this would have occurred. If they had become lovers, perhaps Willas’ influence could have halted the brutality? Should he have approached Beric and made his regard clear?

“I am most lucky it was not you.” Thank the Lord for interrupted thoughts! At his feet Oberyn shifted easily, limbs long and lithe, before settling with his back to an arm of the chair, torso against Willas’ leg. “I would then have had to kill the man for breaking your heart as well as your trust, and yet I still like Lord Beric. Even if he is a fool to love a creature as perverse and twisted as Bolton, and a fool twice over for his romantic notion of stealing from the rich to give to the poor. Robin Hood he is not, or any hero of literature: just a foolish redhaired murderous lordling who could hang for his crimes.”

“You are too kind to me.” Willas loved him for it.

“You are too sweet for us all. Even now, with evidence of his wrongdoings, you attempt to see the best in a man who kills.”

“Many men have killed,” he whispered. “Tarth and Lannister. My brother, Garlan. You.” Yet their deeds were not selfish, but then neither were those of Lord Dondarrion. His aims were altruistic, and that turned everything upon its head, and Willas, lost with it, and despairing, could not truly condemn his friend despite everything. That, of course, made him feel even more torn.

“Ah, but war allows us, and expects us, to do duty by our country. To murder, that is different, yes? Upon the field of battle we kill or be killed, or even the politics surrounding such. Sometimes death is thoroughly deserved, and we should applaud the one who visits it upon another.” Oberyn's expression sharpened, exposing a viciousness that sat very well upon his handsome face - much to Reverend Tyrell’s consternation. “Sometimes, someone is in the wrong place, the wrong moment, and their death signifies little. In the greater scheme of things - which is more shocking? Our handsome guardsmen, or your brave brother, or me, doing what we were paid handsomely to do? Or a child upon a ship that is to be wrecked for nothing but greed?”

“But the circumstance. I-I know that is is wrong, I preach that, but-” Willas closed his eyes tightly, fighting the prickling of tears at the corners of his eyes. “He is my friend. Despite everything, Beric is still my friend, and I still love him.”

Shadows moved behind his eyelids, and then arms found him, dragged him into Oberyn’s body once more. He moved with a tenderness, a careful regard, that every fibre of Willas’ being ached; such kindness in every gesture, before lips found his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his cheek.

“He does not deserve you, or your friendship, or your goodness. I will keep you from harm,” Oberyn promised, a thickness in his voice. “You have suffered enough, lovely one. Let me keep you safe? Let me be the strength you need?”

“I love you. I cannot help it. I have tried not to, but I cannot stop. Please,” he said, shaking as the kisses found his lips. “You always tell me the truth, when others cannot, and you do not care I’m a crippled idiot who cannot even see that his truest friend has lied to him. Lied and lied-”

“Hush. Hush, sweet boy, for I am here.”

 

* * *

 

His sister.

Cersei. Jaime’s sister.

Tarth did not return to Blackhaven until darkness beckoned, until there truly was no other alternative.

His sister. Jaime and his sister.

The portrait that Tarth had seen, so long before, confirmed this; the likeness so shocking that he once made a jest that Jaime loved a woman who could be himself turned into the opposite sex, and how narcissistic was that? They laughed, and shared a bottle of ale, and never spoke of it again for the similarity did not matter, not truly. Portraiture never could be an exact science, as the paintings of Brienne as a young _ingenue_ placed proudly upon the walls of her childhood home attested. In them she appeared demure and almost pretty, wide-eyed and her wispy hair curling charmingly, a blue sash tied about her waist and gauzy gown feminine and lovely. These pictures did not show bruised knees, or sullen stares, or the refusal of a child to wear clothes befitting the daughter of a peer of the realm. They showed what she should have been, not what he became; idealism and social construct painted an image of Brienne upon canvas, masterstrokes and lies in oil and fantasy.

Yet, that miniature of Cersei Lannister, exquisite as the woman herself no doubt shone, did not lie. The bewitching tilt of her emerald eyes matched those of her sibling, her shining hair the same wheaten spun gold as Jaime’s own once had been before silver crept into his locks and beard. Even the arrogance, looking down her long beautiful nose at the world in such effortless understanding of her loveliness, echoed the major’s amused sardonic sneer toward those he despised. How could Tarth have not seen? But then how could he have looked for a connexion that could never be expected, especially in polite society? Especially in Lannisters.

Stiffly he dragged himself up up the grand staircase, a guttering lantern clutched in his hand. Martell told Tarth when they met in the entrance vestibule, most kindly, concern obvious, that Jaime had left the pic-nic with Mr and Mrs Lannister, had not yet returned to Blackhaven, and that Lord Beric was indisposed for the evening.

“Come, we are in the library,” he offered, his hand light upon Tarth’s arm. For once Prince Oberyn did not flirt, or attempt to make love with his words; his gaze remained warm and level, compassion lacing his tone, and just as understanding as he was upon the ship bound for England with Brienne’s secret. Still Tarth appreciated his silence.

“We, Prince Oberyn?”

“The reverend and I-”

“I will not disturb you, and I would be ill company this evening. My thanks, your Highness, for your invitation, but I will go to my room and read a little.” Read, and think, and try to compose himself.

It would be unfair to interrupt Oberyn, enamoured of his reverend and keenly aware of his admiration being returned. For weeks Willas watched as surreptitiously as he could, wide-eyed and in awe, as the prince charmed, flattered, teased, targeted. Oh, yes. Even if Reverend Tyrell had not admitted his regard, the Spaniard sensed it - the entire house sensed it. Mr Bolton made snide comments out of earshot of the foreign houseguest, perhaps aware of Oberyn Martell’s prodigious reputation for weapon play and poisoning. A wrong word, and a dead estate manager could result; privately Tarth thought that nothing but an improvement to Blackhaven. Others thought the reaction the priest rather sweet, though a chambermaid professed to being rather sad that it were not her master, Lord Beric, who had caught the eye of either gentleman.

“He could do with someone lookin’ out for him,” Gilly said. She’d married the kindly young doctor, despite the scandal of her having a child out of wedlock, but country living meant her wage from Blackhaven helped supplement Dr Tarly’s meagre income: he’d rather treat the sick than hold out for payment and it kept him poor but godly. “M’lord is a kind man but he’s like a lost lamb half the time. Do him good to have someone guide him apart from God, Lieutenant, and it isn't ever a woman that turns his head, bless.”

“You do not not care that he-?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, ser, he might be that but he keeps us small folk well, takes care of us when we get old, buries us when we die. Not many who does that for their villagers, so who cares if he likes cock?”

That sent Lieutenant Tarth blushing like a callow youth, and Gilly, sweet and innocent faced, laughed and laughed.

No, it would be thoroughly unfair to interrupt a fledgling seduction between two men who desired such, and too galling upon Tarth’s soft, bleeding heart.

His sister. Still the horror echoed, hours after the words were spoken.

The chamber smelled of Jaime’s hair pomade and shaving creams, of the unguents that Tarth carefully massaged into the aching scarred tissues of that mutilated wrist stump, and beeswax boot black. Before the pic-nic they made themselves look like fine soldiers, handsome and glorious, and what a lie. A lie, all of it. A damned lie that wrapped about Tarth’s long broad throat like a noose and tightened inch by inch.

A cripple and a woman. A fine soldier did not take their sister as a lover. They did not conceal their bodies beneath the red serge of the King’s Army.

As Jaime had omitted terrible truths, so had Tarth. What right did he have to react to the major’s transgression in such a manner when he too swam in dishonesty?

He placed the lantern upon the dressing table, next to the silver-backed brushes, and slowly collapsed upon the stool.

Everything screamed Jaime. Merely breathing in the heady combination of scents set Tarth’s mind churning in desperate confusion. The casual untidiness of his personal accoutrements at his side of the chamber, usually frustrating, now added to this overwhelming consternation; boots left without trees, his uniform jacket hooked over the back of a handsome antique carved chair, his baccy pouch unrolled as he could not retie the strings. He should be lounging upon the bed, sheets drawn up merely to his waist and exposing the gleaming gilded flesh of his torso, green eyes all at once glitteringly amused and curiously liquid in the half shadows.

Tarth loved him, and ached for him, and feared the consequences of, Icarus-like, flying too close to the blazing Lannister sun. One touch and he would plummet, broken and burned. One touch and that connexion could destroy everything that Tarth fought his whole life to attain. One touch, and all his lies, unravelled, would be exposed to the world.

His sister.

How could a rational person even attempt to understand? Now that the initial horror ebbed to an underlying discomfort he found himself caught in a strange reverie of sorts, dwelling upon the whys and hows and wherefores. No sense could be found and Tarth, prudent despite that latent romanticism that led to ill-advised novels and the mocking of his fellow soldiers, foundered upon the very thoughts.

Lannisters, from what he pieced together - Jaime’s asides and Selwyn’s letters affording information from differing sources - ascribed to their own inflated view of themselves. Arrogant, ambitious, not averse to resorting to foul means in order to gain what they desired, they had dominated politics for several generations and, with Tyrion forging his own career independent of his father, promised to continue this well into the century. The familial reputation of the Lannisters straddled the country, Colossus-like; a veritable Giant of wealth, name, breeding, and historical significance. Many disliked, and many more bore great jealousy, but nothing marked the pristine golden hide of the true Lions of England. Hard as diamond, they were, and untouchable, and nothing, it seemed, could deflect their purpose toward power and wealth. Not even the shadows of secrets so heinous; the patriarch who dominated utterly, a son who turned his back upon his family, another who took his own sister as a lover, and a sister who birthed one of the most despicable boys in living memory. Despite beauty and status something ran dank and stinking through the Lannister family, a tarnish to their gilt and pearl and ruby.

But Jaime, for all his flaws, still proved himself one of the best of men. Selfishly perhaps Tarth could not merely dismiss their friendship, their regard, the love that existed. To fall for such a man as Major Lannister was to burn, be broken upon shores by crashing waves and pounded against unforgiving unyielding sands. To not love him could not be considered, for that would be like asking a man to not breathe, or think, or sleep. No, for all his own sins, and that of Jaime’s, breaking an attachment - even one as unspoken and taboo as Tarth’s own, as in essence most would think it the love of a gentleman for another of his sex - would not be contemplated.

A friend, a true friend, could never turn from another in need. Had not Jaime faced the mocking of their fellow soldiers for their mutual companionship? Rather than curry the favour of those who chittered behind hands like ladies with fans, Jaime stood apart. He stood tall, and uncaring, and drove them with force of personality, and persuaded them with sheer will and glamour. He did not join with whoring, or drinking, or the casual games of soldiers.

Tarth widened the gap, awkward and an easy target with his whiskerless cheeks and innocent air, all solidly honourable and gangly tall, and Jaime defended him.

The crack of Hunt’s nose breaking echoed so loudly in the dry Spanish air, as the major explained to him with a fist exactly why he should address Tarth by his rank and not by insult.

Perhaps sleeping upon this would help? He tugged uncaringly at the stock about his throat, shucked the embroidered coat to hang over Jaime’s similar red jacket, slid the bracers from his shoulders. Yes. Sleep, dreaming of nothing preferably, in order to gather his wits, and then, tomorrow, he would think about what was to be done.

He should loathe Jaime. Breaking natural law, breaking Tarth’s tender aching heart - yes, he should hate the gentleman, despise him utterly. But Jaime never hid who he was, what he was, under layers of courtesy and falseness. He maintained an honesty of character, a refreshing purpose of mind set toward a task - a straightforwardness that did not ring cracked or untrue - that spoke well of him as a person despite his past wrongdoings. This, of course, made everything infinitely more difficult. If he were a distempered soul, one who had, through clever use of looks and charm, won Tarth to his side and played with his goodly nature, then hating him would come naturally. Knowing Jaime as he did, as a decent man underneath a mass of contradiction who hid a far more noble heart under a often flippant and sarcastic exterior, the pain dug far deeper than it otherwise should.

Off with the linen shirt, all fine lawn with whitework at the cuffs and throat. A handsome creation, one kept for special occasions, and one that Tarth wore with more pleasure than a gown with similar elegant stitchery across hemline and bodice.

He sat staring silently into the flickering lantern light, and did not hear the creak of oaken floorboards or the tread of boots.

“Tarth-”

Jaime?

In a moment he went to move, sluggishly dragged from a half-drugged state of mental fatigue and emotion, but a hand found his shoulder, a bound stump pressing at the other, and he found himself trapped upon the stool before the dressing table.

“Ser.” His voice, thank God, did not quiver.

Silently he prayed, a prayer that could not be answered, that Jaime would not find Tarth’s full reflection in the warped ancient mirror. He prayed that those lovely emerald eyes, the glowing gaze of a hero in one of those awful wonderful romantic novels, would merely take in the thick stem of throat, lightly scarred about the base, leading heavily muscled into broad shoulders and strong biceps.  _ Please ask about the wounds _ , he begged silently, rather than look down a little further, over the freckled hairless plains of a chest that for a woman would be quite featureless. Flattish yes, and if corseted Brienne would have to have ruffles sewn into her bodice if she desired a more prominent embonment, but still. No youth had such soft pale skin, dappled with old scars that he healed himself rather than admit himself to the navy surgeon, or pretty pink nipples tipping up pertly and capping the tiniest suggestion of breast.

Jaime watched him, eyes upon Tarth’s own, His expression, grave and quiet, suited him, but then every look did. A smile. A frown. Melancholy. Euphoria. Such was Jaime’s beauty that he could wear anything upon his face and still be the most attractive of any in Westeros.

“I must apologise,” he said finally, a gravelled tone eroding his throat. “Not for what I did with my sister, because I will never apologise for loving her, but because I did not trust you enough to speak of this. For you to find out in such a way was objectionable, and I am sorry that my actions hurt you.”

“Do you love her?” It was not the question Tarth expected to pass his own lips, and, judging from Jaime’s reaction, one that he had not thought to hear either.

“Yes, I loved her. I loved her very much.” His sigh fluttered wistful and sad from between his parted lips. “She is my twin, we shared everything when we were young, but then she married as Father requested, and I was posted abroad. It is difficult to fuck when you are a thousand or so miles apart, though we wrote each other letters. Then I discovered that while I waited for her, she did not wait for me, and as she grew older, she prefered her lovers as young and handsome as I was at ten and eight.” He shrugged, a frisson of old pain taunting his face into an ugly scowl. “I thought that now I am to stay in England she might want me, but what use is a cripple without a hand when she is beautiful and whole and can have her pick of the most beautiful boys in London?”

“They are not you.” No one could ever compare to Jaime. The words twisted the major’s mouth from pained snarl into something rather more lovely, painted with a fondness that hurt.

“I do not deserve you, Tarth. Here I am, sordid and filthy, speaking of fucking my sweet sister, and you still defend me.” The hand upon his shoulder moved, palm against skin, dragging across collarbones so Jaime’s arm wrapped lightly about Tarth’s neck; half-embracing his fellow soldier, Major Lannister’s jaw rested upon the crown of the lieutenant’s head. 

“I do not pretend to understand, and I am appalled,” Tarth started carefully, aware of heat rising upon his skin, in the very pit of his belly, between his thighs. Such casual affection tore his heart from his chest and ground it into the very loam. “Your actions go against every moral code that we have, and I will never defend your actions with your sister. I still respect you, however, as a soldier, and my commanding officer, and that will never change. I have travelled with you for too long, and have seen too much, just to discard you now - it shall take time for me to make any sense in my mind of this. It seems you are two persons in one, and are both and the same all at once, and I need to try to learn how to. To-”

He paused, then shook his head as all about him failed. If he continued then he would admit a love that must remain unspoken, utterly detrimental to them both.

“Words escape me, ser. Apologies.”

“Understandable, of course. Not every day you discover your commanding officer loved his sister, eh, Tarth?” He smiled that easy smile of his, the veil slipping neatly back into position, but the terrible truth remained haunting his bright green eyes. A mask he may wear, but Jaime never could fully hide himself. Not with Tarth. But perhaps pretending normality would help? If Tarth needed to act, to make out he was not bleeding with the revelation and his magnanimous admiration toward Jaime was born of friendship and not desperate love, then perhaps Major Lannister found his make-believe of slick smiles and sharp asides also aided?

“When were you going to tell me, by the by?” Jaime asked as easily as his false smiles, after the silence dragged unkindly for too many moments, and Tarth, horror creeping into his veins, frowned.

“Pardon?”

“I thought today was for secrets, was it not? You discover that I fucked my sister. I discover quite by chance from my delightful new good sister that Selwyn Tarth never had a son named Brian.”

“Jaime-”

“But he most certainly had a daughter named Brienne, which is a far finer name. Brian is awful. Reminds me of a shopkeeper, some horrible little greengrocer sort.”

“Jaime,” he begged, scrambling away across the chamber, arms wrapping about his bare chest. Even now he could say that Mrs Lannister must have incorrect information, that he was Brian, that Brienne was dead dead dead and that was a truth, was it not, for Brienne died with Galladon and rose from the ashes and the sea as what he was, and it was  _ a _ truth if not  _ the _ truth, and Jaime followed, matching each step with a long stride of his own until Tarth found himself trapped against the window seat and without any way of evading the hand that wrapped about his wrist.

“The greatest soldier in the King’s Army, and you’re a woman,” he said, low and level.

Oh. The pain!

They all mocked him, all his life. Children from his girlhood, ones from aristocratic families outside the island who never understood the Tarthish nature of the womenfolk, saw a little girl attempting to be better than God made her. His fellow soldiers who belittled whiskerless cheeks and innocence, even when faced with Tarth’s impressive strength in battle and his excellent command of men. Hyle Hunt. Hunt, who seemed decent and friendly and wanted nothing more than to fuck someone easily persuaded into lechery for a purse of gold and bragging rights, wounded deeper than any. But Jaime before and Jaime now, with sarcasm in his words, hurt more than anyone. Tears threatened but Tarth, who schooled himself even before he left Brienne as a memory not to cry unless alone and unseen, bit the saltiness back with an audible swallow and turned the suffering outward.

“You cannot humiliate me more than I have humiliated myself,” Tarth snapped. “If you must mock me, then do it where I cannot hear you. Go and tell your brother, or the officers. They will be a far more appreciative audience than I am.”

“Brienne-”

“Do not call me that! My name is Tarth!” With that he pulled his arm back, twisting, Jaime’s fingers sliding in the chill sweat slicking his clammy flesh. 

“Tarth. Fucking hell, Tarth. Stop. I’m trying to talk with you, and you’re-” He appeared bewildered, but Tarth, needing to be strong, needing to push away and defend his own person, his own sanity, refused to soften. Not this time. Not with the ache in his chest, the anger at his temples throbbing, the hurt suffusing every ounce of flesh in his tall, broad body.

“There is nothing to talk of, Jaime. You fucked your sister. I am a woman. I think we are now even in lying. I wish to go to bed, and sleep. I will, of course, find another room to do so-”

“Dammit, Tarth!” Jaime hissed through his teeth in frustration, pulled his hand away. “Why are you so bloody stubborn? Why do you always think your way is correct when you are utterly, completely wrong, for once in your perfect bloody life? Yes, you are always correct, and I always listen, but, for once, I would have you listen to me! As a courtesy, if you will.”

Jaime’s eyes flickered down, over naked flesh, and he turned away. “And, for the love of God, please put something on. You are utterly distracting.”

Ugly. Ugly, disgusting, a something neither man or woman who appalled the man he loved. Tarth snatched a shirt from a pile - one of Jaime’s, too tight in the shoulder, scented of him, and he almost wept - and fastened it with trembling angry fingers.

“There. You can look at me without being horrified, ser.”

“It is not-”

“Please say what you wish, and we can be done with the charade.” Less vulnerable, more armoured with linen across his chest, Tarth managed an almost smile that appeared ghastly in the rippled surface of the looking glass; red-faced and sweating, with his pale hair swept back from his high forehead, he looked part deranged.

“I meant it, you know. Even if you will not believe me, because you are eager to ignore my word, my reverence when it comes to you, you are the finest soldier in the army. There have been three that I have known more capable - Selmy and Dayne are dead, and I find myself without a hand. What is between your legs has no bearing upon that, Tarth.”

Jaime’s jaw clenched, a hardness turning him to gold-inlaid alabaster. “Do you think so little of me? Really? You have made me a more honourable man, a stronger one, one who would never have survived these months past since I lost my damned hand, and you think for one moment I give any sort of care to you being a woman? You may be one, but you are also a soldier, and a friend, and,” and here he paused, staring straight into Tarth’s face with a raw honesty that stripped him from being a Lannister to merely his Jaime. “Merely the person I owe my existence, my redemption, and my soul to. Nothing much, eh? Perhaps if I did not know you I would be shocked at your not being a man, but perhaps I always suspected a little - I do not truly know? You are far kinder and honourable than any soldier that I have ever met, more one of your knights in your appalling novels, I suppose, and therefore utterly different to the usual rabble.”

“My regard for you transcends all - you have no dear how much I admire your sense, your courage and determination, your honour. You must allow me to express the depths of my admiration for all that you are, my dearest Tarth, even if you think I am mocking you.” A curious fevered light glistened in his handsome green eyes, misted and damp like a spring morn, as Jaime laid his poor maimed arm clumsily upon Tarth’s thinly-clad shoulder. Despite the bandages wrapped snug about the ruined limb heat seemed to sizzle at the lightest of pressure; burning, blazing, all consuming.

“Jaime,” he said, the anger melting to an exhausted hollowness, and Tarth, weak-limbed, sank to sit upon the edge of their bed.

“You, Tarth. You I hold in the highest esteem, above all who I have met in my damnable blighted life, because of your decency, because of your flaws, because of who you are and what you have afforded me in friendship.”

What could anyone say to such a declaration? What words could pass his lips to even compare to Jaime’s speech? If Tarth were a beauty, dressed in muslin and ribbon and hair curled prettily about smooth pale temples, if he were as lovely as Miss Stark, or Mrs Lannister, then such an impassioned speech could feasibly be the precursor to an offer of marriage, could it not? Of course the words did not speak of elegance of feminine accomplishment, or children - quite unlike the proposals to be found in Tarth's romantic  novels - maintaining the sort of respect to be found between two gentlemen, and for that he found himself truly grateful. No. A promise of comradeship, continued friendship despite concealing his gender: that was all Jaime meant.

Jaime watched Tarth with an intensity that would be frightening if it had not been witnessed dozens of times previously in various highly-charged situations.

“You are worthy of someone being decent to you, of being your friend” he finally managed, “but you give me far too much credit.”

Jaime settled next to him, thigh against thigh; so strongly made, and finely turned, and he really was so very, awfully, painfully beautiful. Longing turned him from flesh into something half-godlike, though not of the Christian type. Too handsome, too life-aware, too vital and real and made of flesh was Jaime, more Greek or Roman than Biblical. Even now, with his arm ending at his wrist and eyes shadowed, lines cutting about his mouth from pain and exhaustion, silver in his hair and beard and age quietly wearying him, even now he was everything. Not because of his looks, not only because of them, but because Jaime did not care what lay between Tarth’s legs, because of friendship and mutual respect, because he was real in a way that Tarth’s romantic novel heroes could never be; flawed, and selfish, and battered by life, and Jaime.

Tarth could never hope to match the elegance of Jaime’s speech for he was not a person driven to such vocal sentiment. He demonstrated his regard in his presence, in act and deed, rather than words that inflamed, gifts that flattered, showy gestures. He would rather take a bullet to the chest than attempt to voice his love, and any attempt would only be a stumble-tongued foolishness that could never reflect his true emotion.

Instead he touched his fingers to Jaime’s hand, callouses over callouses, rubbing his thumb lightly across white-fleshed knuckles, before retreating.

“What are we to do now, Tarth? Now our secrets are revealed?”

“I do not know, ser.”

“You cannot stay in the Army. At least, you cannot remain without my presence.”

The truth, of course. Another captain may not be so careful with their young naive lieutenant. Despite Tarth’s strength and capability, Jaime did protect him to a certain extent. From many things. Hyle Hunt. The masculine camaraderie that could expose Tarth as Brienne. Injury and orders to see the camp doctor, exposing his true sex and leading to disgrace and ignominy.

Tarth swallowed back the black despair of losing all he had ever desired that caught in his throat but Jaime, so attuned to his lieutenant, saw. His hand, his dear hand, so warm and rough, splayed and caught Tarth’s, tangling their fingers together so tightly that no one could escape the strength of that grip.

“Come with me. Fuck the army. You said you’d follow me wherever I went, whatever occurred, and I would have you come with me.”

“If I am discovered, Jaime, it will disgrace us both-”

He shrugged, as carelessly elegant as always. “I fucked my sister. I have Tyrion for a brother, What is another disappointing child who seeks to destroy themselves in pursuit of their own desire? I do not care, for I am already a disgrace to my family name. I should be lordly and married, with children, yet I am neither heir to my father or happily wed. Tyrion, despite Father’s hatred, will inherit. Cersei brings forth devilspawn children and cheats with boys barely old enough to be of age. I chose military life over the destiny that should have awaited me because, dearest Tarth, I am a very selfish man.”

Jaime smiled thinly at that, though a certain bitterness lay bare and naked across his handsome face.

“I am not intelligent enough to be a career politician, or devious enough, and certainly not dishonourable enough despite my name and my blood. I am - was - a damned good soldier, and that is who I shall always be. It is what you shall always be. We are, together, the best of teams, you and I. It would be a great shame to split us in two when we make a greater whole than the sum of our parts.”

“One day,” Tarth ventured, as steady as he possibly could be as his heart throbbed in his chest and his breath did not wish to come, “you shall meet a lady who you love, you shall wish to settle, have children. There would be no place for me in that, and-. And it would pain me to leave you then, when all I would have in the world would be you. I would find the loneliness very difficult to bear.”

The fingers laced in Tarth’s hand squeezed.

“Yes there would be. There would always be a place for you. As my friend. My confidente. My lieutenant.” Another of those sharp secret smiles of his, that seemed to be kept only for Tarth, and Jaime’s overbright and half-maddened eyes bore like daggers into his own. “As more besides if we find ourselves mutually compatible. Which we do, I am sure. No other person has dealt with me so successfully - I usually drive others completely mad with frustration. No one has ever understood me like you have.”

“You have always been a good man, even with your flaws.” 

“As have you.”

Heat burned upon Tarth’s cheek, the redness spreading from his throat to his face. “I am just me. An ugly woman of uncommon size who wishes to make her way in the world.”

“You are not ugly, Tarth. You have not been ugly for many months. It has been quite a while since I have thought you one of the more attractive people of my acquaintance for your goodness shines, your decency glows, and you have the finest eyes that I have ever seen. An acquired taste you may be, but I find you more than pleasing to me because you are with me.”

Jaime lifted his hand, Tarth’s trapped still - and no, he would not attempt to escape, for the closeness between them sent trembling heat through every nerve ending and he was lost in words, swirling about his mind and fluttering at his senses - and lightly pressed his bearded jaw to the battered skin overlaying long thick fingers. For a moment they were still, the blush upon Tarth’s scarred face deepening, before lips that he’d dreamed of, sighed over, watched with endless fascination found the crease between palm and wrist, lingering and soft.

“Come with me, Tarth.” Another slow, maddening kiss, Jaime’s eyes slipping shut and golden lashes thick and long lay heavy upon his cheeks. “Come with me, Brienne.”

 

* * *

 


End file.
